It’s not hard to find videos on the internet of a pretty girl getting a whipped cream “pie” in the face. But it’s rare to find one where the recipient is such a cute combination of excited and embarrassed, and doubly-rare to find one where the person delivering the whipped cream is practically wetting herself with excitement and glee:
People can develop a fetish for just about anything. And making an unpleasant experience into a pleasant one by fetishising some aspect of it is hardly unheard of. It’s one of many theories behind why some people enjoy getting spanked or caned, for example. And I personally know a urine fetishist who spent a rough year in a hospital during his adolescence, recovering from a traumatic injury that left him unable to handle his bodily functions without a lot of hands-on nursing care. (He’s also fond of nurse outfits and rubbery medical stuff of all kinds. Correlation does not indicate causation, but sometimes it’s a clue, right?)
Something I have not encountered (which is not to say she isn’t out there somewhere) is a woman who professes any sexual fondness for medical speculums. Most women report finding them unpleasant, for reasons that seem obvious enough. But in this long article on the history and design of the speculum, I noticed with interest the following account:
In 1850, the Royal Medicine and Chirurgical Society of London held a standing-room-only meeting in which the community heard arguments for and against the speculum. These doctors worried that women would mistake the exam for a sexual experience. The British physician Robert Brudenell Carter reinforced this fear in his 1853 book, On the Pathology and Treatment of Hysteria, writing that he had “seen young unmarried women, of the middle class of society, reduced by constant use of the speculum to the mental and moral condition of prostitutes; seeking to give themselves the same indulgence by the practice of solitary vice; and asking every medical practitioner … to institute an examination of the sexual organs.”
You can parse that as the empty blatherings of a moral panic about female sexuality, but what if we parse it instead as an honest report of observations of fetish behavior, a report that is almost buried in and obscured by the moral panic of the nonetheless attempting-to-report-his-observations doctor? To put it in modern terms, is Dr. Carter telling us that in his practice he encountered young single women who had fetishised their encounters with speculums, who were now sexually excited by speculums, who masturbated to memories of their experiences of being examined with a speculum, and who sought to recreate that fetishised experience at their next medical visit?
It ought not be a surprise, if that’s indeed what Dr. Carter encountered. And if it happened in the early 1800s, surely it still happens today?
Being a typical male-type pig-dog, I have always thoughtlessly assumed that the specula sold as sex toys were mostly about the pleasures of doing: looking, poking, prodding, playing doctor, inflicting (with sadistic intent, of whatever perhaps-mild degree). A woman’s pleasure in these scenarios I might have imagined to be reciprocal: pleasure at being the object of voyeurism, the enjoyment of any good roleplay that excites and inflames your partner, the masochistic pleasures (in whatever degree) of having been inflicted upon. I had never considered the possibility that the speculum itself — or the act of being examined by a speculum-wielder — might have fetishistic power in its own right.
What’s going on, on the other side of the wall? Something sure has Rain DeGrey’s full attention:
Is it a man with a powerful vibrator and an insatiable forced-orgasms fetish?
Or, is it a pussy spanking that never seems to end?
The girl in the wall never knows what’s coming next, until it starts to happen. For all she knows, there could be a whole corridor full of playful perverts lined up over there…
Pictures are from the most recent shoot at Sexually Broken. Sorry, there’s no free samples gallery available yet.
One of the nice things about having a membership at a porn site like Sex And Submission is that they always take lots and lots of photos when they do a shoot. Maybe 16 go in the free gallery and are thereafter seen over and over again as they echo forever through the infinitely expanding mirrored chambers of Tumblr, but most of the rest (often 150 or more) are going to be fresh to you when you see them. And some of them (even if only by purest accident) are going to break with tired porn formulas and satisfy somebody’s unanticipated micro-fetish. Fully-dressed-man fetish, anybody?
For example, if you looked at the public-facing promotional material for last week’s shoot at Sex And Submission, you’d get the impression of a fairly standard (although quite well-made) bondage fucking-and-sucking extravaganza. You’d get no hint whatsoever that there was a moment (after her wrists are tied but while his pecker is still inside his pants) like this:
What tickles my fancy about these two photos is that there’s no failure to communicate about the impending bondage blowjob, and yet it’s done in a relatively soft-core way. Sometimes you don’t need to paint the whole picture with primary-color crayons.
For the curious, the woman on her knees in these photos is Casey Calvert.
Item: multi-centi-millionaire. Item: horse-crazed wife with a love of horsey rituals and gear (dressage). Item: “unemployed” by his own characterization, so plenty of time to play. Item: Lots of real estate, so plenty of private space to play in. Item: pony-boy gear in possession.
Her son Josh told another New York Times reporter in 2007 that he had given his dad a rubber horse mask so that if he wore it, “maybe Mom will pay as much attention to you as she does to the horses.”
Maybe she would!
And now you’ll never be able to look at him on TV again without imagining him staggering along a forest track somewhere wearing a saddle, his wife in full dressage kit, a horse mask, and about thirty riding crop welts. And nothing else. Well, nothing else except for the sweat. And I imagine he’d maybe have him some fancy $10,000 custom-cobbled hoofy boots from some toney bespoke fetish cobbler in London.
Motive, means, opportunity. The Romneys, they has them all.
When asked about this story a representative of Dogs Against Romney said “If it’s true, I hope he suffers as much as poor terrified Shamus did. But I doubt it — because Ann Romney at least has a horse trailer, so her pets don’t have to ride on the roof.”
(I totally just made that quote entirely up.)
Thanks ever so much to Femdom Resource for spotting this. Rather less thanks, I think, for the resulting mental imagery…
As long as we’re doing Victorian fetish fuel I can’t resist putting in my own little contribution.
Friedrich Nietzsche’s Zarathustra has a rather notorious aphorism “Du gehst zu Frauen? Vergiss die Peitsche nicht!” (“You go to women? Do not forget the whip!”) So it was in literature. In life, things were rather the other way round, and we have the photographs to prove it.
This was taken in 1882 in Lucerne, and here it’s Nietzsche himself who’s one of the pony boys (the other is Paul Rée). Lou Andreas-Salomé wields the whip. This picture can be found in lots of places on the web, although it was brought to my attention by Julian Young‘s new Nietzsche: A Philosophical Biography.
For a picture in which nothing less innocent than an ankle measurement is taking place, I feel like there’s an awful lot of fetish fuel and barely-repressed perversion going on here:
This is from my file of vintage postcard scans, so unless somebody can recognize that scribbled signature, I’m totally without a provenance to provide for this artwork.
Bondage Blog has a great piece this morning featuring a pretty girl being shrink wrapped, in a latex balloon. In 1939. By a meat packing company. In the pages of Life magazine, in front of God and everybody and your prissy great-aunt Beatrix.
Granted, treating girls like meat was probably uncontroversial back in 1939. But what fascinates me is the fetish fuel question. In 2010, this is fetish fuel of the highest octane. Bondage Blog rattled off six or seven fetishes it touches on, and I could add several more without a strain. (Lingerie, breath control…) But was it obvious fetish fuel then? Was this a bit of clever marketing by kinky bastards who knew how to get a press release covered by Life, which in turn knew that it could publish the kinkiest shit in front of Aunt Beatrix and everybody just by playing dumb and keeping a straight face?
Or was it, in all innocence, the “gosh-gee-whiz this is how you’ll be getting your beef” celebration of marching technology it presents itself as? Were people really that innocent in 1939? I find that very hard to believe.
Complicating all this is the fact that fetishes evolve over time, and I’m not aware of anybody who has tracked those evolutions in any rigorous way. When did rubber even become a fetish material? (I know it was well established as such by the time John Willie started publishing his Bizarre magazine in the late 1940s.)
I have long held in my mind the question of what one might do if one has a fetish whose object cannot actually be found in one’s environs. Foot fetishists and hair fetishists in some ways have it easy — feet and hair are everywhere. Even a necrophiliac can raid a morgue or a graveyard. But what if the object of your erotic attraction are hot nymphets from around Polaris? You would then appear to be seriously SOL, my friend.
Extraterrestrial Sex Fetish is a book about a man with this sort of curious problem, one Mercury de Sade, a computer programmer living in turn-of-the-twenty-first century New York. Mercury de Sade is really into aliens.
But of course there aren’t any aliens for Mercury de Sade to get it on with, even in New York, and so he is led down some dubious paths in life: weird sexual fantasies, philosophical studies, various digressions and tangents and, oh yes recruiting (or abducting) teenage girls whom he designates as “Ninfas” and attempts to “convert” into aliens.
Mercury de Sade’s odd life is reflected in an odd literary structure. There are a long sequence of short chapters classified as Alien Sex Scenes (ASS), or Mercury de Sade’s fantasies of sex — often nonconsensual — with various imagined extraterrestrial beings, Methods of Deterrestrialization (MOD), or Mercury de Sade’s attempts to make Ninfas into aliens, Lessons in Exophilosophy (LIE), where are essays on the idea of alien life in the history of ideas (including such figures as Descartes, Locke, Voltaire, Hume, Kant, Schopenhauer and so on), and various philosophical reflections called Digressions and Tangents (DAT). There is one of each of these for every one of the twenty-four letters in the Greek alphabet, thus 96 short chapters in all. One can read these linearly, or one can partition the book in other ways. For example one could read only a history of ideas by starting with LIE 05 (Descartes) and proceeding through LIE 23 (Barthes). Or if one wants to read the rather squalid tale of Mercury de Sade converting an abused girl named Charlotte into “Ninfa XIX” you could read the MOD sections straight through. Or if you just want fantasies of alien sex, read the ASS chapters in any order one pleases. Though you might miss a little in doing that — for example, Voltaire’s imagined Micromégas, and a being 120,000 feet tall from Sirius (LIE 09), and Mercury de Sade’s fantasy of attempting to have sex with an equally large alien woman (ASS 09).
As you can probably guess, there’s a lot for many people in this strange book, especially if you have something for grays or little green men or alien giantesses. In general, the alien sex fantasies are quite imaginative. The answer to the question “what do you do if your fetish is just impossible” seems to be “lots of things: philosophy, fantasy, and maybe kidnapping.” I especially like the conceit that philosophy can be a result of thwarted sexuality: Nietzsche must be smiling, up in philosopher’s heaven. I am a little puzzled why a computer programmer like Mercury de Sade (evidently a very able programmer, as he is able to afford a loft in Manhattan and those were not cheap in 2001) doesn’t try more with virtual reality, video games, or other technologies that would seem germane. (That’s where I would be, if I had Mercury de Sade’s fetish and his skills.) Still, worth a read if it sounds like your thing.
Thanks to Blog Lord and serious beard-fancier Andrew Sullivan I can pass on a link to an article that charmed me: writer and artist Kris Saknussemm on “My Ten Favorite Fetishes“, something that he’s clearly devoted quite a lot of attention to.
It begins:
Having studied sexual fetishes for twenty years (which is itself a kind of fetish), I’m long past the investigation of shoes, pain, vomit and rubbing up against people on the subway. My first real job out of college was working as the circulation manager for the Spectator, a Bay Area adult-entertainment publication, which was fueled by classified advertising — often for very distinctive “services” and interests. While there, I became acquainted with a number of memorable characters: Peg Leg, a one-legged call girl with a very full dance ticket (and some remarkable prosthetic attachments); The Coach (gym shorts, silver whistle, clipboard); and a sexually ambiguous individual who just called him/herself “The Sneezer.” (I’ll let you use your imagination there.)
And only gets better from there. What’s not to love? Read the whole thing.
As an exercise to squeeze a little additional pleasure out of the article, you can ask yourself how many of these you’ve either (1) practiced or (2) thought about enough to try to write down a fantasy or scenario involving them or at least potentially appealing to people interested in them. I did this for myself. I came up with four.
Only four? Must. Work. Harder.
And try to be a little more open-minded, perhaps.
Not sure if I’ll ever really get to the one about peanut butter, though.
When I first saw this graphic I thought it must be in support of the “forced feminization” fetish that, in its more misogynist incarnations, makes Bitchy Jones want to start jumping up and down on somebody’s balls (and not in a good way, either):
It turns out I was dead wrong. Or was I? Conceptually speaking, I’m not so sure; because this actually comes from the September, 1955 Cosmopolitan (yes, that Cosmo) magazine, and it illustrated an article that had the following reader’s hook:
His bride betrayed him on the very first day… she did not cook his breakfast! And that, it turned out, was the beginning of the end.
“Am I a man or a mouse?” He wondered as he washed the dishes–and answered, “I’m a mouse.”
The trampling fetish, in which men fetishise being walked on or stomped on by women (I haven’t heard of the gender obverse version, which is not to say it’s not out there) has a long and colorful history, from Japanese geishas forward. But I was stunned to see it so explicit in this fragment from a 1950s magazine advertisement for fitted sheets. She’s stomping all over him, there’s probably two kids and a dog bouncing offscreen to the left, he’s looking up her lacy night-slip (or whatever you call that thing) with a big grin on his face, a great time being had by all, and it’s all because of the miracle of fitted sheets!
From time to time, I have posted to remind people that there’s no substitute for having your own server (not literally your own, but one that you pay the hosting bill for) before building anything of substance on the internet. It’s always struck me as insane to build stuff on “free” servers run by somebody else who hopes to monetize the traffic you generate, especially if you’re involved with sexual content that they might decide is icky. Either they will like you too much, and try to steal your traffic in various ways, or they like you too little, and kick you out (oh, and keep your traffic). You might hope to be Goldilocks, but hey, good luck with that.
I don’t remember posting again when Blogspot (now Blogger, a Google company) killed about half the sex blogs out there over a period of months, deleting many of them and putting many more behind ugly, traffic-killing warning pages. It struck me as inevitable, and I saw a lot of sex bloggers take my advice when it happened and get their own host and domain. Over the years, I’ve seen a lot more just vanish when their “free” hosting environment became toxic. This might even be the second most common reason (after “stopped posting”) why sex blogs die. So, I notice it.
But it’s important to remember, this is a broader principle of life and business on the internet. It’s not just blogs.
Remember way back in 2004, when an outfit called Ning announced (with great fanfare) that they were going to host social networks like MySpace, for free, so you could set up your own? I even (briefly and somewhat later) toyed with the idea of setting up a social network on Ning for my ErosBlog community of fans, but I wasn’t confident Ning would prove adult-friendly over the long haul.
Well, other people dove into it. And as of this week, all the folks who started social networks around porn, sexual nudity, or “fetishes” learned they were about to be royally screwed, with all their years of community-building effort flushed right down Ning’s toilet:
On Monday night we announced that we will no longer support adult networks on Ning beginning January 1st, 2009.
As it relates to the Ning Platform, adult networks include, but aren’t limited to pornography and depictions of sexual acts. To clarify the point, networks that contain or are focused on the following topics would clearly fall into the adult category include:
* Pornography or images of sexual acts
* Nudity intended to sexually arouse the viewer
* Graphic photos or videos
* Fetishes
To be fair, the original announcement cites practical and (to me) believable financial reasons why the adult networks are being evicted from Ning’s network. Some of these networks — and this is no surprise to me, given some of the toxic porn marketing I encounter daily — seem not to have been good tenants.
To their credit, Ning appears to have embraced open standards that may (I am far from certain) make it possible for these banished Ning communities to export at least their user lists, and possibly more of the network content. Maybe some of them will be able to reconstitute themselves on their own servers — is there free open-source social-networking software out there these days?
Anyway, I’m not saying the Ning people are being bad or evil. But the effect of their sweeping anti-adult business decision has been to wipe out an enormous amount of effort that users invested in their platform. It’s a pattern that repeats itself whenever people use “free hosting” of whatever kind. If you build your shit on somebody else’s land, they can, and they eventually will, either tear it down or tell you to haul it away (if you’re lucky). Nor does “upgrading” necessarily save you; Ning offers paid upgrades from its free advertising-supported service, but it appears that, upgraded or not, if you like teh fetishes or teh pornz, you’re still banished.
There’s a lot of extreme closeup shots to be seen at the gyno/medical fetish site Exclusive Club, but as usual for me, I found myself more entertained by some of the establishing shots. Does the doctor really need such a firm hold on her chin to look at her tonsils? Or is he, like, planning to anoint them?
And I also like this next shot (below), chaste though it is despite the schmear of KY jelly on her butt. I can just hear the doctor booming “We are done, thou well-greased wench! Begone from my exam table!”
(Upon mature reflection, it’s probably just as well I didn’t pursue a medical career.)
There’s a new fetish map out there, and Franklin Veaux, its creator, says:
Some time ago, a person named Katharine Gates designed a map of human sexuality. … My first impression upon seeing this fetish map was that it was woefully incomplete. … I wanted to try my hand at designing a fetish map that would be a bit more complete than Ms. Gates’, and I thought, why not do it as an actual map? One of the ideas I wanted to convey was how small most folks’ sexual experience is, how small most folks’ conception of the whole range of sexual expression is, and how vast the actual range of sexual expression is. And, I thought, a map of an imaginary world might be a way to do that.
And how! The map is huge and well worth perusing. Here’s just one tiny detail:
I don’t do very many pure “go buy some shit” blog posts, because it’s very easy for sex blogs to go overboard that way. But sometimes I see something that’s just too deliciously bizarre not to point out.
Anyway, last night I went surfing to see what was new in sex toys, and what I discovered instead was new sexy stuff in the masks and BDSM hoods areas.
What caught my eyes in particular were these expensive, spectacular, and surreal leather bunny hoods, in black or white:
(Sadly the carrot dildo is not included.)
Continuing in the animal vein, check out this scary-but-very-handsome zippered dog-face hood:
You may or may not find these sexy, but you’ve got to admit they catch the eye!
I freely admit to being wholly ignorant about the anatomical details of human lactation, knowing only that, under appropriate circumstances, there can be milk, and that glands and ducts are involved. As a guy who has never been a father, I figure the details are not my department.
That said, when I stumbled over this fetish lactation picture among the cover art on a Japanese DVD, I was somewhat startled to note that in this picture (and in every other picture on the box) milk was being expressed in numerous divergent streams:
What’s up with that? I guess I always assumed, you know, basic bilateral symmetry, two boobs, two nipples, two ducts, two quirts of milk, two cups of coffee. That hard-working right nipple up there is pumping out, what, four squirts and a dribble?
I could Google it, but it’s easier and more fun just to say something ignorant on the internets and wait for all the helpful people to come along and set me straight…
Remember the foot with the pussy in it? That was a manufactured fetish object, sadly no longer available.
The foot nipple, on the other hand, just growed. It’s real, all right; there are pictures. The foot nipple even has those wayward nipple hairs growing out of it. (We’ve seen them before, too.)
Apparently nipples in unusual places are not that that unusual, in the grand scheme of things, but the foot nipple is a first in the medical literature:
A 22-year-old woman sought medical care for a lesion in the plantar region of her left foot, a well-formed nipple surrounded by areola and hair…. To our knowledge, this is the first report of supernumerary breast tissue on the foot.
…
Anomalies associated with breast development are not uncommon. Supernumerary nipples, and less frequently supernumerary breasts, are present in about 1-5 percent of the population. Such alterations are more common in women, usually occurring along the embryonic milk line, which extends from the axilla to the groin.
Supernumerary breast tissue (SBT) is rarely found beyond the mammary line. However, the back, shoulder, face, and thigh have been described as sites of SBT development.
My sister is a big fan of the Olympics and sent me this picture during the Chinese games:
All she said in the email is that it’s the world’s largest penis and it is somewhere in China. If that’s true, my question is why is it a circumcised one? I thought automatic chopping was just an American thing (fetish, mutilation, whatever).
(B., I asked my GYN once about that fingers-in-and-pushing-down-with-the-outside-hand action……she said it was to feel how big the uterus is. Soooo. Sexy. NOT!!)
For most of us the needle in the butt is just one of those medical indignities to be suffered. But, for some it’s a highly charged fetish situation. This injection scene is from a detailed and explicit medical fetish shoot in Taboo Magazine:
I’ve commented before that anything can be a fetish, and that one of the things I like best about sex blogging is reading people try to explain why certain things turn them on, that we’d not usually expect would do so. Needless to say, this ring fingering thing from Chelsea at Pretty Dumb Things made my day:
Marriage is a contract that I may never make, and yet I like being fingered by men with wedding rings. It’s not that I can feel the ring. Wedding rings tend toward the slim and the flat. I’ve never had the experienced the interior wriggling of a finger with a ring rococo as Liberace’s , a skull bauble thick as Keith Richard’s, a chunk of metal clunky as Robert Lee Morris’s Superman. The rings that have been inside me have been modest, prudent, utilitarian bands signaling commitment.
There have been three of them in reality and one in my imagination.
…
Clearly, when the finger is diddling me, I can’t see the ring. I can’t even feel the ring. So the pleasure of the ring comes neither from the visual nor from the sensual. It’s a purely imaginative power. It’s a pleasure that rests in the seat of all pleasure–my pinky-grey and corrugated brain.
It’s difficult for me to put my finger on the exact spot of that imaginary pleasure. I would be remiss if I didn’t admit that part is powered by the shock of the illicit thrill, if indeed the finger belonging to the man fingering me is infidel. Like almost every other human, I do feel pleasure in transgression, and crossing this boundary, like all the strange others that for one reason or another give me the good down-low tingle, nudges whatever purely physical pleasure there is into electrically-charged territory. But the illicitness isn’t it in and of itself.
I know that it’s not because the man, the imagined man, the one without the ring, the one whose ring I imagined and in imagining it found great delight, was Donny, my now-X and then erstwhile fiancé. It was his imagined not-ring that prodded me to gyrate indecorously one sunny August afternoon, his naked fingers twisting and turning inside me. My mind furnished his finger with a ring. It bedighted his third finger on his left hand with a ring, and though neither the ring nor even possibly that exact finger was rubbing the walls of my pussy like a magic lamp, it was real enough to me, and I came from the concept as much as from the reality.
Which all leads me to believe it’s not the cheating that I like. It’s the abstract concept of commitment. It’s the symbolism of the ring, this piece of metal that our culture uses to denote those of us who have made a pact with another human from those of us who haven’t. It doesn’t matter whether the man has committed to me–though clearly my fetishization of the ring in general and my somatic response to Donny’s fictive ring in specific suggests that a commitment to me would be ideal–it’s that this man has committed, for good, bad, or ugly to someone.
It’s all very strange, though. Just as a gentlemen is advised to remove his socks before sexual congress with a woman, wouldn’t the usual rules of etiquette demand that he remove his wedding ring before fingering a woman not his wife? I’m not sure Emily Post ever covered that nuance.
Reader KingTaco writes in with some choice sex spam. I didn’t want it in the comment thread where KingTaco put it, but I fully concur with the urge to share it with the broader world. KingTaco says:
I’ve just received what I consider to be the holy grail of porn spam. It’s easily the most impressive piece of all-text advertising I’ve ever seen. I hope it’s not in bad taste of me to post it in it’s near entirety here (near in the sense that I’ve removed the linked porn site because it’s not my intention to try and advertise for them using the Eros Blog comments as a free ride):
“You could be thinking to yourself, how did an exotic Oriental fetish such as bukkake could become so widespread. It’s pretty simple, really. It’s all about traditional, conservative values. And what can be more accepted or conservative than openly humiliating women who cheat on their husbands by dragging them into the public square, binding them tightly with ropes and having every able-bodied male in town shoot hot loads of thick, burbling man-sap into the offending wenches’ pleading, upturned faces?
Nowadays, bukkake isn’t a punishment… it’s a way of life! Modern, liberated young women of all races, colors and creed have awoken to the sexual potentials of this practice, and today, you cannot swing a dead cat without hitting a gal who loves it right up on the face, or right down the throat, or in the eyes, or all over their heads, whatever way they can get it, really.
If you desire your models charming, your content exclusive and your facials hardcore, then (link removed) is certainly what you have been looking for.”
Such a prose poem to the glories of facial spooge almost cries out for a picture, so I went and found one for you:
This one goes out to all you ladies out there who’ve ever put on a set of kitty ears and meowed suggestively at someone. Astonishing fetish artist Michael Manning posted … well, words fail, you’d better just go see it.
As he describes it:
It was inspired by an Arabian Nights-style story fragment courtesy of fetish model and neo-Scheharazade Zille Defeu. If I remember correctly, it was about a female thief, disguised as a boy, who sneaks into the palace of a local sultan and is (of course) caught red-handed. When the sultan discovers her true gender, he decides to punish her by turning her over to his extremely horny pet tiger, with predictable results…
Camping in the desert with fetish model Adriana Sage is not like any camping you’ve ever seen. It’s getting dark when she gets to camp, so she pitches her tent, half-wearing a fetching rubber number:
In the morning, it’s time to haul some water. Nipple clamps are for style, we assume:
Then it’s out onto the sand for the day’s entertainment, with horsey tail buttplug and saliva-lubricated crystal dildo:
I pretty much ignored the sad story of Zoey Zane’s disappearance when it happened, because the press treatment was so disgusting and I didn’t have any useful insight on the story. However, I was pleased to see some hints of porn positivity in this article by Alan Scherstuhl in the Kansas City Pitch:
Here’s the victim in happier times. She’s spread across a beige bed in a beige room in what must be a beige apartment complex off a frontage road someplace. She wears a pink mesh top and black knee-highs but is otherwise exposed, with one leg scissored up and the other spread wide with gynecological bluntness. This is the point of the photo, of course, the only reason that it exists.
But that’s not what makes it arresting.
She’s grinning. She has slipped off her panties with a cheerful flourish, is waving them high above her head. The air blooms in them. There’s a blooming in her face, too, a look wholly unlike what we expect from women who make sex a performance or a business. [That’s a sad commentary on your expectations — Bacchus.] She looks pleased and surprised, the way you might if you somehow managed to yank away a tablecloth without disturbing the place settings.
She looks the way any of us look when we’re naked and goofy with someone we trust. Except better, of course. She looks better.
What? Porn girls can be happy? And the news has reached Kansas?
Sander’s death is shocking. But what isn’t is the fact that, in America Gone Wild, a “sweet, good kid” – as her grandfather described her to ABC – might take her clothes off for money and post her naked photos online. For half a century now, Hef’s Girls Next Door have been leaning nude on hay bales and stirring lemonade topless. Playboy bush is a perfect timeline of both the country’s increasing comfort with pornography and pornography’s corresponding discomfort with the natural. Before ’69, the magazine hid the bush entirely. When it appeared, it immediately began to thin, becoming less unruly every year – a patch, then a tuft, then a Velcro strip, then a sharp-lined eyebrow. And then, finally, to keep up with Penthouse and strippers and former Mouseketeer starlets, nothing at all.
The women changed elsewhere, too. Now they’re glazed over, poreless, their flesh like the caramel dripping in a candy-bar commercial. Breast implants are so common that a couple of times a year, Playboy publishes Natural Beauties as a sort of event: “real” as a fetish.
As the Girl Next Door goes, so – to an extent – goes the girl next door. Sander was shaved and tattooed, professionally tanned and pierced through the lip. But she still was “natural,” both in the categorical sense and in that real-girl essence that is the selling point of online amateurs. She looked real because that’s what she was: a real young woman trying – like so many of her peers – to look like a porn star.
The day-night writers prefer to think of Zoey Zane as someone separate from Emily Sander. But such real feeling pulses in that photograph of her grinning in that beige bedroom that it’s dishonest not to ask the hard questions. What if this is simply who she is? Who we are? At what point does pornography become documentary?
The article goes on to detail some of the tasteless internet “humor” that’s sprung up around Zoey Zane’s death, explaining it thusly: “Check any message board where Sander is discussed, and you’ll find yourself staring hard into an ugly truth: Many users of porn despise the women who turn them on.” Which may indeed be true; at least, it’s a theory we’ve discussed here in connection with ugly porn marketing tactics.
However, there’s still an obvious and gaping void between dead tree newspapers and the internet culture they sometimes try to report on. One might wish that Scherstuhl had seen this article in Wired Magazine, especially this bit:
If there’s one thing, though, that all these factions seem to agree on, it’s the philosophy summed up in a regularly invoked catchphrase: “The Internet is serious business.”
Look it up in the Encyclopedia Dramatica (a wikified lexicon of all things /b/) and you’ll find it defined as: “a phrase used to remind [the reader] that being mocked on the Internets is, in fact, the end of the world.” In short, “the Internet is serious business” means exactly the opposite of what it says. It encodes two truths held as self-evident by Goons and /b/tards alike – that nothing on the Internet is so serious it can’t be laughed at, and that nothing is so laughable as people who think otherwise.
To see the philosophy in action, skim the pages of Something Awful or Encyclopedia Dramatica, where it seems every pocket of the Web harbors objects of ridicule. Vampire goths with MySpace pages, white supremacist bloggers, self-diagnosed Asperger’s sufferers coming out to share their struggles with the online world – all these and many others have been found guilty of taking themselves seriously and condemned to crude but hilarious derision.
It’s certainly true enough that the folks abusing Zoe Zane’s memory don’t respect her. But what’s apparently not evident in Kansas is that they don’t respect anybody. There’s a whole internet subculture, prominent and youthful, that is aimed at self-importance and sacred cows and social propriety and any other sort of stuffed-shirtness they can find. They live for outrage, they think outrage is funny, and they don’t care what they have to tread on to get it. They are as distinctive in their online social presentation as, say, Goths are in their clothing. (Really, they are that distinctively easy to spot. Last night I dropped into a Team Fortress Two server they were infesting, and I could tell who was there by the offensive usernames and by the sound clips they were playing incessantly and in violation of that game’s social norms. Within two minutes, one of them had cried “The internet is serious business!” over his mike in response to somebody’s complaint about his behavior.)
Whatever you may think of the Serious Business Brigade (if you couldn’t tell, I don’t like them much because I treasure civility, which they tend to spit on) it’s pretty ignorant for a newspaper writer to Google up their spoors and write about them as generic internet users without, apparently, being aware that they exist as a distinct subculture.
There’s a video up at Atlanta Bondage under the title Can’t A Girl Pee In Peace? (Backup link.) I’m not going to re-publish it here, because it’s not, to my eye, erotic, nor funny either. However, it has some interesting social implications that aren’t likely to get mentioned anywhere else, there not being very many places that combine occasional social analysis with comfort in referencing a video clip featuring bare boobies and mildly kinky porn.
The “girl” in question is pretty clearly, to my eye at least, a model for one of the many porn sites that cater to the public urination fetish (subfetish category: women squatting to pee in the public streets). This model is bare breasted, smiling, and squatted-down right in the middle of some sort of street or public way (perhaps a wharf, or pedestrian mall). Here’s a cropped still from the beginning of the clip, in which I’ve highlighted the villain of the piece, to whom I am semi-arbitrarily assigning a male pronoun:
In the clip, he strides forward and kicks our incontinent heroine solidly in the ass, nearly knocking her over. The remainder of the clip shows her steadying herself with a hand, then turning and standing up to confront her attacker.
So, what’s going on here, and why is it interesting?
As it happens, I just read a piece by Chuck Klosterman in Esquire magazine about declining interest in professional boxing. As Klosterman explains it, people have lost interest in the sport of boxing because they no longer have a visceral relationship with the idea of hitting people or getting hit. A fine theory about which I have little opinion, never having been a fan myself of hitting people or being hit or watching big burly dudes do either one. But I was fascinated by Klosterman’s next line of speculation:
Now, I realize all of this is (obviously) more good than bad. I’m happy that avoiding physical confrontation has become so easy that I don’t even have to think about it. But I wonder: If the decline of boxing is the product of civilization’s detachment from physical fear, what is the accompanying downside? I think one possible answer might be a depressing brand of social overconfidence.
It is impossible to deny that the culture is coarsening. Everyone concedes this — even the people who are happy about it. It is now acceptable to say almost anything, about almost anyone, in a public space, and for no reason whatsoever. There is no line to step over, because such lines no longer exist. And I think those boundaries disappeared the moment people really, truly lost the fear of getting punched in the face. Americans have understood this intellectually for decades, but I don’t think we accepted it in totality until now. Adults are now so insulated by technology (and so protected by modernity) that the possibility of a physical consequence for any action is a psychological nonfactor. We have removed interpersonal fear from day-to-day behavior. Today, boxers are the only people who get hit for fucking up.
So, what does this have to do with our punted piddle-princess? Everything! His foot hitting her ass is a classic example of generation-gapped cultural conflict.
By my own lights, the peeing porn starlet was misbehaving. People who enjoy seeing girls peeing in public have a fetish, a modestly rare one. Most everybody else doesn’t want to see it, and they surely don’t want to step in it, or walk around it. At best, it’s horribly rude and socially transgressive to be doing what she was doing. Responsible pornographers would secure a movie set and provide sufficient extras to achieve the same visual effect without imposing their fetish on unwilling passers-by. And they would hire a dude with a mop, to clean up after.
I think it’s fair to speculate further that she and her photographer knew she was violating the social contract, but were sanguine about getting away with it. They probably worried about police intervention — perhaps they had a spotter watching for cops and ready to call a warning — but I suspect that it never occurred to her that any of the passers-by upon whom she was imposing her bare breasts and pussy and urine stream would take physical action against her to interrupt or to punish the imposition. People of her generation, or mine, just don’t do that sort of thing.
But our man (and I do think it’s a man, but I’m not sure) with the crazed white Einstein hair and the armload of files is not from our generation. He’s from a generation in which people cared a lot more about public propriety, and frequently took it upon themselves to enforce it with direct action. Doubtless he was offended by some half-naked [four letter term of derision] pissing in his path. Doubtless he considered he was doing a public service by applying a swift kick in the ass to both interrupt and punish the breach of the social contract. I have no doubt he felt good about doing it, and the way he stops and squares his stance after the kick suggests that he was ready to do it again if need be, or to stay and defend his actions otherwise. If we had an audio track, we’d be hearing somebody getting a piece of his mind about now.
So, who is really the villain of the piece? The pisser, or the kicker?
I’d like to weasel out with “a pox on both their houses”, but I need to acknowledge that it’s really not quite that simple. The trouble with enforcing social contracts with fists and feet is that social contracts aren’t really contracts, and they tend to get made up on the spot by cultural bigots and then enforced on people who never consented to them. (Don’t believe me? Ask Matthew Shepard.) I don’t really want people in my society feeling free to piss on my toes for profit, but I’m a lot more worried about living in a society where disagreements about appropriate public behavior get “settled” by sudden assault.
So, I guess my bottom line is, ix-nay on the ass-kicking. But I do agree with Klosterman that by creating a world where the ass-kicking is improbable, we’ve also created a world full of people who feel free to (metaphorically, most days) pee on your toes and tell you to go fuck yourself. That’s good more often than it’s bad, but it’s definitely a mixed blessing.
A few fetishists have not only delved deeply into this topic, but have actually assembled collections. One such gent, according to Shozo Saito, the head of the Odawara municipal library and researcher into things sexual, was a chap who went by the nom de plume of Takishima Kinkaran,
Kinkaran was born in Tokyo in 1893 and could often be found frequenting brothels in the Hakusan area, which was established in June 1912 as Tokyo’s newest licensed bordello district, not far from the University of Tokyo campus.
Kinkaran was said to be a man of great personal charm, and one of his pet projects was to persuade geisha to contribute their pubic hair, which, he would tell them, he was collecting in order to stuff a zabuton cushion. Alas, he died prematurely of a respiratory illness at the age of 37, and it is not known how far along his zabuton project ever progressed.
…
Historian Shimokawa introduces a gentleman named Takao Hanada, who is fondly remembered in the postwar period for being the first person to organize wife swapping in Japan, and later authored a book entitled “Exchange: a record of certain swapping encounters.”
After a swap session, Hanada would sort the pubic hairs collected from his female partners and tape them to the reverse sides of their husband’s business cards. Sex-reseacher Saito says he was able to view a collection of some 150 cards accumulated by Hanada over a period of 10 years.
Perusing the backs of these cards, he was able to appreciate the wonderful variety of lengths, shapes and textures of the hairs in Hanada’s collection.
Hanada had collaborated in his project with a chap named Zenkichi Nagano, who at that time the fiftyish director of a regional bank. After going around and soliciting women at local drinking establishments with little success, Nagano decided he would have to change his technique.
“He went to bars and cabarets and asked hostesses for samples,” Saito tells Shimokawa. “After plying them with a few drinks, he’d make his pitch, saying, ‘I want your pubic hair.'”
Too embarrassed to do this in places where he might be recognized, Nagano would take the train one or two hours to another town or into Tokyo. Offering a 10,000-yen tip as an incentive, the gals would excuse themselves, slip into the powder room, and return to the table and pass him the goodies.
“More than just receiving money, some women saw this as forming a personal relationship, so to speak,” says Saito. “Perhaps Nagano finally got used to being treated as eccentric, or perhaps once the women realized he was harmless, they became more cooperative, they warmed to his advances and the whole mood changed.
“Anyway, it got to the point that a few gals would even drop their panties right in front of him and allow him to harvest hairs from them on the spot.”
Nagano eventually obtained 200 specimens, which he wrapped in traditional Japanese “washi” paper and saved in photo albums, organized according to the locations from which he’d collected them.
Nagano was said to have remarked that he never managed to have sex even once with any of the “contributors.”
“Somehow, I initially felt a sense of regret over this point, but now it gives me a feeling of pride,” Nagano supposedly boasted.
I admit it, it’s a fool’s errand trying to understand fetishes not your own. Too often it’s a hard-wiring issue: a fetish is a fetish and that’s that, no explanation possible or required.
That said, some fetishes are more mysterious to me than others. Take, for instance, the humble straight jacket:
Outside the world inhabited by violent inmates, the point of this garment sort of eludes me. Sure, it’s a bondage thing, a helplessness and (unless you’re Harry Houdini) hard-to-escape kink. But, sexual-fetish-wise, what’s the point of getting somebody all tied up if, once you’ve done it, you can’t hardly get at them?
And that’s where the implacable march of technology comes in. The world’s more intrepid sexual adventurers have invented what they are calling The Bolero Straitjacket:
Sez the catalog copy:
Sexy. Sensuous. Functional. What more could you ask for in a straitjacket? How about stylish, innovative and chic?
The Bolero Straitjacket is all of these and more in a cropped strait jacket made of high quality, light and medium weight garment leather, latigo belting and nickel-plated hardware.
Like a traditional straitjacket, it has a buckling collar and back closures in addition to the extra long glove-like sleeves that extend beyond the fingertips. The sleeves end with a small rectangular ring on one and a strap on the other.
The features that make it unique are its cropped length and the vertically and horizontally adjustable chest strap which leave nearly the entire chest and back exposed. The proper positioning assured by the cropped feature and the adjustable chest strap makes the traditional crotch strap unnecessary without sacrificing functionality as a restraint.
And just like that, boom! Problem solved. Erotic bondage will never be the same. Available in no less than four sizes for your binding pleasure.
The thing about erotic story repositories on the internet that makes them so interesting is that they are structurally noncommercial. Which is to say, for the most part, they accumulate the sort of erotic fiction that nobody wants to be in the business of selling in print.
It would be easy to say more generally that amateur erotic fiction isn’t of commercial quality, but that’s a cop-out; it’s so hard to make money selling erotic fiction that, strictly speaking, virtually all of it that exists isn’t “commercial quality” if you define that as “you could sell enough of this to be worth publishing it.” No, I’m talking about thematic elements that would, at the very least, complicate any commercial distribution, themes and scenarios that make business people nervous and/or queasy. Rape, incest, sex at any age, bestiality, rare fetishes, social taboos, and every imaginable combination thereof: “I caught my teacher fucking her dog and blackmailed her with the photos, I made her wear sweaty rubber boots, call me Master, and suck my cock in the supply closet — and then I made her take my little brother and his Nintendo buddies on a field trip to the petting zoo!”
This, of course, is a specific instance of the general case, the root nature of the internet that makes it so wonderful and terrible. No matter how narrow your interest, you can get anything you want, but you’ll find it cheek-by-jowl with a million things that will raise your eyebrows until they ache.
Doubt me? Go have a look at The Kristen Archives. If there’s a better place on the internet to find sex stories, I haven’t seen it. But you simply must be adult about it. Skim the summaries; if a story’s not for you, don’t read it. For extra credit and true advancement toward mastery, cultivate the ability to appreciate what’s hot about a story while disregarding the elements (stylistic or thematic) that aren’t.
Your example for the day is Screwed, featuring an amoral attorney who’s clearly more excited by the financial screwing he gives his client than he is by the blowjob he enjoys from her. If you’re a professional of any kind, you might find yourself too outraged to enjoy the story. Which would be a shame, because there’s no law that says villains can’t be funny in the conduct of their villainy:
I wound my hand in her hair and jerked her head back and forth, each time forcing more of my dick into her mouth until she was almost choking, but she never pulled back. When she reached between her legs and began playing with her pussy as I roughly jerked her head onto my cock, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. She was getting off on the rough treatment. I would like to have experimented more, but the tremendous mental and physical stimulation pushed me over the top, and with almost painful jets, I shot a copious load of jism down her throat, my cock unbelievably huge and purple looking, the orgasm without a doubt the best I’d ever experienced in a woman’s mouth, making it feel even better.
I collapsed backward onto my elbows, basking in the after-glow, my cock still twitching in her hand as she licked her lips and swallowed the remains of my wad. Then, squeezing up the length of my cock, she forced up a final dollop of sperm, and looking at me, and squeezing the huge drip onto her tongue, she let me watch her spread it around her mouth and slowly and with a sensuous grin, swallowed the entire thing. Then, as though not yet satisfied, she sucked my cock clean of every last drop of cum, kissed my balls tenderly and sat back in her chair with a brilliant smile, rearranging her skirt, giving me a shot of her unpantied beaver before dropping the skirt primly into place.
I let my head drop back onto the desk, eyes closed, trying to regain my strength. I’d never had a head shot like that. The woman was a vampire — she positively loved cum. I glanced at the clock and with a shock realized that she’d sucked me for almost 20 minutes, and that we were almost through the lunch hour. Quickly, I refigured her bill. I’d need to get paid for that extra hour now, and — what the hell — she’d just had her lunch on me! I tacked $50.00 dollars onto her bill. That would make it $350.00. But then I realized that she’d probably dicker with me, so I threw on another $100.00 to give me something to work with, for a total of $450.00 less her discount. I’d just gotten paid $150.00 for blowing my wad down my client’s throat!
As I watched her repair her lipstick, I thought about the glimpse of her hairy cooze I’d gotten as she’d pulled the skirt down. I was still excited and the thought of fucking this ‘respectable’ mother of two made my cock start to stand up again. I didn’t bother to put it away.
“Well, Karen, that was great — you certainly have talent — but now there’s the matter of your bill.”
Well, of course, she’d expected that the entire bill would be forgiven based on her performance, but I gave her a lecture on overhead travel fees, etc., then made my pitch for the discount. But before I did it, a perverse streak caused me to quote her $550.00 as my bill to see what she’d say. She seemed taken aback, but I pointed out that I’d done a lot of research before we’d gone to court. I gently explained to her that just because she’d assumed that I’d dismiss the whole bill didn’t constitute a contract because we’d had no discussion beforehand. Then I asked her what she thought her services had been worth. Just as I thought, she undervalued them-obviously low self esteem-and dubiously quoted $100.00. I could have backed her down, but I had another plan in mind. I accepted her offer, and generously knocked off another $50.00 to show good faith. That term always gets them, even though it meant nothing in this case. Now we were down to $400.00.
She had brightened appreciably. I then offered her a chance to knock the bill down another $50.00 if I could fuck her — and I said it just like that. She acted as though the very words turned her on. But, believe it or not, she was getting bolder, and came back with $100.00. We finally settled on $75.00. I was on a roll, and I could have gotten her down to $50.00 — but, what the hell, I’m not totally devoid of conscience!
Here’s some serious scholarship on the state of T&A in today’s videogames. My favorite passage:
Nowadays, you almost wouldn’t bother to ship a game without some kind of T&A angle; serious people use the phrase “breast physicsâ€? without irony. Female leads are common–and if they tend heavily, if not exclusively, toward an adolescent bondage-fantasy aesthetic, well… is “fetish pinup ninjaâ€? not an improvement on “kidnapped girlfriend?â€?
Do I really have to choose? Why can’t I have both?
Remember my post arguing that making sure your porn is ethically produced is no harder than doing the same thing for your salad dressing or your cheap manufactured goods? (You’d think this was obvious, but as I documented in that post, some in the rabid anti-porn crowd dispute it.)
Anyway, Evil Porn Werewolf Enslavers Debunked remains one of my favorite pieces on this blog. In support of my argument, I chose some of the scariest Eastern European spanking porn I could find and then did some basic consumer research, quoting spanking model Niki Flynn at length on the professional conditions at a Lupus Pictures porn shoot.
This was serious business — you can see her welts here — but she had her reasons:
I don’t process pain as pleasure. I knew my caning would hurt a great deal, possibly more than any of my previous experiences. I did briefly wonder whether, caught up in the moment, I would find pleasure in my real-life flogging in a way I couldn’t enjoy some other girl’s filmed experience — and, pre-empting an upcoming post on the topic, no, I didn’t get any enjoyment out of the pain until it was all over — but, on the whole, I was prepared for a thoroughly uncomfortable several minutes over the famous bench.
And that was OK, because I knew – from studying the films, and from talking to Niki Flynn, who’d gone to that scary place before — that the rest of the shoot would give me the sort of pleasures that would make a few minutes of acute pain worth going through. For somebody who has a separate fetish for artistic suffering, working with a production on the scale of Lupus’s would be worth every stroke.
I had never before worked to a script, and I’d get that. I had never had somebody else think through the costume and make-up for me — I’d get that too, and in the end even the hideous pieces of reformatory wardrobe would turn out charming in their appropriateness. I had never before taken detailed direction, or shot completely — and confusingly — out of sequence, or acted in sets built for the purpose in every small detail; in short, I had never been a part of a spanking shoot run on such a professional level — and I knew that all of these experiences were mine for the taking.
Some fetishes are out there, more common than you think, but you don’t hear much about them because there aren’t very many enthusiasts who are ready and willing to “own” the fetish when it comes to public declarations. The terrible beauty of the internet is that you don’t need “very many”, you only need one. In this case, Bitchy Jones:
I really don’t like the term piss play. Or anything ‘play’, really. Sometimes the infantilisation of kink makes me feel slightly bilious.
…
But, face facts — “piss playâ€? is a whole lot nicer than any of the other terms we could dredge up and puke over. This post will not be talking about anything *golden*, anything *nectar*, or frankly anything that makes it sound *nice*. It is not nice. That is the point. It is dirtybadwrong.
Which is nice in a way. But the other kind of nice, not the nectar kind of nice.
I love piss.
Just the thing. In and of itself. The hot, the salt, the colour, the smell. God, I love the smell. I love the way it works like perfume and the scent of it changes as it dries on your skin. The way it kaleidoscopes through different notes. It starts off light and nothing, then fruit, green apples I’d say if I was so inclined — and then it just gets darker and harder and nastier until it’s just dirty back streets and bad, bad things.
Everywhere you shouldn’t go. Everything you shouldn’t say. Everyone your mother warned you about.
Thanks is due to Fleshbot for attracting my attention to some old news about Kink.com. I’m talking about this article in the New York Times, which, except for one token sentence filled with gratuitous slams (“wince-inducing grisliness”, “morbidly eccentric”), is a perfectly normal and quite interesting business profile of one of my favorite porn companies.
Having commented repeatedly on the pleasure and the significance of Kink.com’s smiling models, I particularly enjoyed reading this passage, in which we learn that running a photoshoot that leaves the models smiling, and then making sure to catch them doing it, is indeed the explicit company policy:
[Kink.com’s Peter Acworth] describes the company as having a certain social mission. Too often, he told me, B.D.S.M. is conflated with rape or abuse. He realized early on that building a respectable company devoted to the fetish could help “demystify” it. People who felt conflicted about their kinkiness, as he once had, “would realize they’re not alone and, in fact, that there’s a big world of people that are into this stuff and that it can be done in a safe and respectful way. Loving partners can do this to each other.” Kink’s required pre- and post-scene interviews, like the one I watched Wild Bill and Adams tape, for example, are meant to break the fourth wall, assuring audiences that, as in real-life B.D.S.M. play, everything is negotiated in advance and rooted in a certain etiquette and trust – that everyone is friends. The company actually requires that each model be shown smiling during the segments.
There’s nothing sexy about burglary or stealing stuff from schoolgirls, of course, which makes this news story marginal material for a sex blog. But I’m sharing it with you because it demonstrates the sometimes awful power of a strong and compelling fetish:
Police: Man stole 1,500 pairs of shoes
Police seized more than 1,500 pairs of girls’ shoes from the home and storage unit of a man arrested for breaking into a high school, police said Tuesday. “He liked to smell them,” said Lt. William H. Graham.
Police said the recovered shoes may be related to the burglaries of three Waukesha public high schools and a middle school over the past two years.
The 27-year-old Kenosha man, who was not identified because had yet to be formally charged, worked for a cable company and collected keys to the schools as he responded to calls, Graham said. The same man was convicted in 2005 for stealing shoes from Kenosha Tremper High School.
Police arrested him after a security video showed him entering North High School on May 20 and leaving with some items, authorities said.
Has anybody stopped to marvel, lately, at what a wonderful world it has become for folks with numerically minor fetishes? There’s the internet for finding and meeting (and fucking) kindred souls, there’s a growing “whatever floats your boat” sentiment among civilized people, and there’s a robust world economy for sex toys of every description.
And boy, when I say every description, I’m not kidding. The latest sex miracle in silicone is … well, let’s go to the visual, or you won’t believe me.
The marketing text is like a syllabus for aspiring foot fetish marketers, fascinating therefore in its own right:
The SiFeet Pussy Foot is the ultimate fantasy sex toy for foot fetishists. This size 6, 100% silicone foot is cast in pure silicone from a real life actual, beautiful female foot. In the sole of this lovely foot is a fully functional and totally fuckable silicone vagina.
This pure silicone foot is soft, smooth, and incredibly sexy. The toes are decorated with acrylic toenails painted glossy pink, making the Pussy Foot seem even more real.
From the toes to the heel and ankle, great time and effort has been taken to insure that the Pussy Foot seems real.
The feature that makes the Pussy Foot even better than an actual foot is the pussy located on the sole of the foot. You can passionately fuck the foot in a way you’ve never been able to before. It is the perfect combination of foot and vagina.
From the toe to heel the pussy foot is 9″ long. The ankle has a 2½” diameter. The distance from the entrance in the vagina to the exit-hole at the top of the ankle is 6½”.
Anyone who appreciates beautifully sexy feet should love the Pussy Foot. This silicone foot is terrific for massaging and erotic rubbing as well as for having hot sex with it.
This silicone sex toy is also a convenient practice tool for preparing to get hot and kinky with actual feet. You are sure to have your technique down to a science when you train with the Pussy Foot.
The silicone SiFeet Pussy Foot cleans easily with soap and warm water or After Glow Toy Wipes.
The SiFeet Pussy Foot is available in a left or a right, sold separately.
If you were looking for “the perfect combination of foot and vagina”, well, now you’ve found it. But it’s the last line, in bold text, that gets me. Left foot or right? Or do you want to collect the whole set?
Let the implications of that photo sink in for a moment.
I’m not going to pussyfoot around, here. (Face it, you knew you weren’t getting out of this blog post until I’d made that pun.) The pussy foot comes in left foot and right foot? Why in all the Stygian depths would someone care whether they are boning a silicone vagina in a left foot, instead of a right one? “No, no, it has to be a left foot, or it’s no good!”
But, in the end, that’s the point. It doesn’t matter why. With fetishes, there usually isn’t a good why. What matters is, if you’ve got a thing for slipping it to a pretty left foot, we live in a world where you can get one, with just a little help from your buddy Benjamin. Don’t let anybody tell you that’s not an excellent world to be living in.
I’ve commented before on the strange labeling and odd packaging of transsexuals in the porn industry. And I’ve shaken my head at the odd ways guys use transsexual porn in internet games of oneupsmanship. But for all of that, I don’t claim to understand the “tranny porn” genre. And my bafflement is surely compounded by the fact that most of what I’ve seen has been poorly produced and badly marketed by pornographers who don’t seem to have been very engaged with the content.
Leader in fetish entertainment leader, Kink.com announced the launch of their 11th all exclusive video and photo content site, TSSeduction.com, featuring hot transsexual women seducing straight men in the first site of its kind. With a new weekly video shoot update, the site boasts the hottest TS girls in action, dominating, seducing and enticing men into first time TS adventures.
Webmaster of TSS, Isis Love has been in the adult entertainment industry for over 7 years. She has worked on both sides of the camera and has been a model and guest director for Kink.com’s woman dominating men site, MenInPain.com for over 3 years.
“With one foot already in the door, I took this opportunity to join the team at Kink.com. After talking to the crew, I came in and directed some test shoots for the developing site,” said Isis Love. “I am totally excited.”
One thing’s for sure, when they advertise (to use their terms) hot transsexual women, they aren’t kidding about the hot part:
You’ve got to love any essay on kinky sex that starts out:
I didn’t just want to write a wank post. There are plenty of posts on the internet about how kinky sex is all whee and shiny and woah, just look at me go!
I. Win. At! Perverted! SEX!
I didn’t want to write one of those. But I wanted to write something that was as real and close and true as I could get it.
I rush the start. The shortest sharpest route to hurter and hurtee. Most often: hair pulling. I love hair pulling. It hurts, you can move the head around, it’s dehumanising. It has everything. It always seems to make the mouth go squooshy and limp. Open and aroused. That mouth thing again.
There is only one problem with hair pulling – aesthetically I love the shaved head look on a guy. It’s that stupid submissive+masculinity fetish I have. Imagine my dilemma. Oh, the quandary. Shaved-head vs pulling-hair. The trial of my life. Who’d be me?
Anyway, so if he has no hair or a super short crop (mmm, joy/frustration/joy), I’ll twist his nipples or find some other hair to pull. ‘Cause he’s naked, right, you knew that? I’m probably not naked, but probably not dressed. And certainly not *dressed* *up*.
Oh, and this stage is really *the* *best* if he is on a chair, in the cuffs and I am on his lap. *The* *best*. All interrogationy – and super hot to the power of motherfuck.
I like to kiss him while I hurt him. I love kissing. This type of kissing is compulsory. Some guys seem to like cold and calculated. Not actually visibly turned on. With me no kissing is a deal breaker. I mean that for real. I have stopped a thing before it started because he had a girlfriend who was fine with play but not kissing — or so he said — and that was probably a lucky escape.
Anyway that icy thing, that isn’t what you get with me. I get very turned on very fast. I am usually more turned on than the guy I am with from quite early on. And doing most of the panting and moaning.
…
I get a lot turned having d/s sex (that being mostly the reason why we are all here) on and when I am turned on I like to kiss. Mouth fetish. I like sticking things in men’s mouths. My tongue is my favourite of those things. These pain flavoured kisses while he’s *hurting* are the best kisses.
I like it when he screams into my mouth.
Like?
I *adore* it when he screams into my mouth
I often keep going with the hurting and kissing until he can’t hold it together to kiss me back anymore. Assuming he’s a submissive or a masochist he’s usually very hard at this point if he wasn’t already very hard, like, you know, when I met him at the railway station.
I often put clamps on him now and if he doesn’t scream really fucking loud, I take them off and put them on him again. And that’s really painful.
And then there’s the hitting:
The hitting, I think, is kind of the equivalent of your earth foreplay. It’s not instead of kissing or fingering or oral — ’cause I might do any or all of those things too. But it’s kind of like that. Another layer. Sometimes more than one body part is required — but most men have more than one body part.
This — I want to be clear — is where it is. This is the point where I know who I am and what I am with absolute abiding clarity. Whatever else I say. All my other fancies and frills. You could take them all if you left me this. I hurt a man and I feel the most intensely pleasurable sensations I think my body is capable of. There is no intrigued here. No one else could have made this of me. I live here. This is home. This I know.
I am a sadist. I get turned on hurting people.
I like pain. I like it quite simple. I don’t want to be distracted or have my concentration focused outside of my body. I don’t do anything flash. I’m generally uncoordinated and clumsy. I know there is little point in me trying to be all fancy with whips or anything too clever or hard to handle. I’m not dexterous. I can’t put on a show. I don’t insert things in his urethra or breathe fire. I don’t tap dance. I miss sometimes. The first ten are always practice. I lose my grip. My skill set is tiny. What I do is often unaesthetic and messy and awkward. But I’ve been doing this a while and what I do works. It hurts and it doesn’t rupture internal organs. It turns me on and I am now at point where I know that that is fine. That hurting men can be something that is decidedly not performance art and that is fucking damn okay. It’s sex, not cabaret.
I was slow to notice that the folks at Kink.com (for whom I have enormous respect) released a new bondage site this month, which looks incredibly rich in texture. (Heavy wood, and heavier iron — these are textures, right?) If you like your bondage heavy (literally!) and heavily invested with a “Resistance is Futile! Escape is Impossible! Why do you struggle so hopelessly?” ethos, Device Bondage may be for you. Medieval methods wrought and crafted in an updated industrial steampunk sort of way make for an unforgettable combination. Don’t miss the (very!) pink closeup of the cast iron speculum in the same shoot this picture comes from:
And then there’s the heavy horizontal pillory found here:
We’ve come a long way from the “two bored porn starlets, a suede flogger twirling in a light circle, and a hank of clothesline lightly tangled” that used to be bondage porn.
OK, friends and kinksters, don’t pay any mind to the electric cattle prod. Sure, it’s in the picture, and you can’t put it completely out of your mind, any more than you can ignore the proverbial 800 pound gorilla in your china closet. But, as the man said in Airplane, that’s not important now. No, the picture is for all you dirty feet fetishists out there:
But what are you gonna do? How are you gonna keep a model’s feet clean when you’re shooting bondage porn in a boiler room? Short answer: you’re not.
Thanks to an old friend and alert reader, I am this morning pointing you to the Marginal Revolution blog, in which George Mason economics professor Tyler Cowen wonders a bit about the porn industry. I don’t want to pick on Professor Cowen unduly, inasmuch as he’s asked the question politely and has attracted a lengthy comment thread that is mostly free of the usual anti-porn ignorance and bigotry (although the porn-is-an-addiction idiocy rears its stupid-head, and commenter Clayton Cramer does drop in to trumpet his longstanding kink-is-evil bigotry — but I repeat myself). However, Professor Cowen did disclaim having much knowledge of the porn industry, and he expressly invited his readers to call him clueless. With due respect, I’ll bite.
Professor Cowen, your post was a little bit clueless. I left a comment there, but it’s worth more discussion here:
[post title] Why Is Pornography Scarce?
Er, it’s not. Not even in the sense in which Econ professors use the word. It’s a glut, a golconda, an exploding cornucopia, it’s everywhere, it’s easy to find, it’s cheap, it might as well be free, it’s easy to get and cheap to store and anybody who wants any and isn’t terminally lazy or stupid already has lots, more than they can ever hope to look at. Unless they’ve recently suffered a house fire or a porn-hostile woman.
So, what’s actually scarce? New porn, fresh porn, different porn. It’s scarce because it doesn’t stay new for long, it’s scarce because ninety percent of everything is crap and so lots of even fresh-made porn isn’t fresh, it’s scarce because (short of stacking fetishes until you’ve got one-legged panty-sniffing midget girls mud wrestling with shaved sheep) it’s tough to make porn that’s new and different. “New and fresh” requires art, craft, skill, all the other things that are in short supply in any industry. And, oddly, unit volumes are so low in porn that art, craft, and skill tend not to be rewarded.
After noting with interest that Playboy is selling its entire set of back issues on disk for about six hundred bucks, Professor Cowen writes:
Have you noticed that storage is really, really cheap these days? Have you studied the durable goods monopoly problem? Once you’ve accumulated a stock of durable material, at some point you will sell off successive units very very cheaply. Have you noticed that costs of electronic reproduction — call it marginal cost — are really, really low these days? Have you noticed there is a massive stock of accumulated pornographic images?
…
Call me clueless, as I have very little direct knowledge of pornography. But I don’t understand why buyers demand such a regular flow of material. Why don’t they just buy a single dense disc of images and keep themselves, um…busy…for many years? I believe also that fetishes are fairly stable and predictable. You don’t need to see “the new porn” to know what you will want to get off on.
First of all, Playboy is unique in the industry. Most porn sellers don’t offer “a single dense disc of images”, or when they do, they don’t price it attractively. In my comment at Marginal Revolution, I speculated as to some of the reasons for this apparent market failure.
Second of all, there is some fetish drift. People’s tastes do change over time. Guys don’t view pornography so much to see the movie on the screen per se. Rather, they view it in order to use the images on the screen to stimulate the somewhat different movies in their own heads. Those movies grow, and change, and shift, over time. Some of the change is stimulated by the porn that’s been seen lately. But lots of the change happens because of what’s happened in the guy’s sexual life, or the new woman he’s been lusting after, or a random comment the hot co-worker made, or any of a thousand other non-porn stimuli. As the internal movies change, most guys find that the external movies need to change also.
But the real confusion comes next, when Cowen reveals that he’s really only talking about a tiny fraction of the overall porn market:
As I observe the sector, buyers cough up new money all the time, and they buy relatively small units of output, and at relatively high prices.
Please “splain” it to me, as they say…
Um, “as I observe the sector”? I know it wasn’t intended to be, but that’s side-splittingly funny.
The “porn sector” is notoriously difficult to observe. Nobody even knows to within an order of magnitude what the gross revenues of the sector might be.
But that’s not what’s so funny. What’s funny is an Econ professor confusing the tiny “observable” fraction of a huge and largely furtive market, with the market itself.
The people who buy new porn are relatively visible. They have credit cards, they make people semi-rich, you can observe the money even if you can’t see the transactions. Porn marketing — which is splashy and observable — is directed at them.
The people who buy “a single dense disc of images” — or who would, if they could find one on the market — aren’t as observable because they account for fewer transactions and less gross money.
And the vast, huge, horde of people who don’t buy porn at all — but who use porn, collect porn, save porn, horde porn, most of which they get for free over the internet — they are part of the market too. Hell, they define the market. True, they are mostly paying a price of “zero” (or, rather, zero-plus, the “plus” being the not inconsiderable cost of a good internet connection), but they are still market participants. To be honest, they are the eight-thousand-pound gorillas of this marketplace, stomping around crushing the dreams of the naive newbie pornographers who think “hey, everybody loves porn, how could I not get rich?”
So, to sum up, Professor Cowen looks at a tiny fraction of the people in the porn marketplace, notes that it’s the most visible and most lucrative set of porn consumers (the part of the market he can see), and wonders why that tiny subset with a market preference for fresh porn in low volume isn’t buying stale porn in high volume. And the answer, of course, is that people who want stale porn in high volume — and there are lots of ’em — can already get it in job lots, for a price of cheap-to-free.
Postscript: To the folks who are happy with their massive collections of older porn (whether they collected it the hard way back in the day, bought it on “one dense disk”, or, like most folks these days, hoovered it up off the internet), it’s often a mystery “why anybody pays for porn”. In Professor Cowen’s comments that question came up, and to answer it, several folks trotted out that tired old war-whore, the “porn is an addiction” theory. That deserves its own rant, but I did point out over there, and want to say here, that it’s a silly explanation for why people are willing to pay money for new and fresh (and scarce) porn. Wanting fresh porn, and paying big bucks for it, when you could have stale porn for free, is no more a sign of addiction than wanting fresh food, and paying big bucks for it, when you could have canned food for pennies from Wal-Mart. Are people who pay big bucks for greenhouse-grown vine-ripened tomatoes in January “addicted to food?” Naw, they just like fresh tomatoes, and they think Del Monte canned stewed tomatoes suck, even priced at three bucks a case at Costco. They have what the economists call a market preference, not an addiction.
I imagine that tickling girls is probably the first experience most little boys get with anything remotely like power exchange or BDSM. Annoying critters like big sisters, powerful people like mom, those fascinating but dangerous girl-creatures at school — sometimes they can be disarmed, discombobulated, annoyed, whatever, it doesn’t matter, they are affected by a tickle, by just a little half-innocent touch. The result can be out of all proportion to the strength of the touch, and what’s more, the “victims” often laugh and seem to enjoy themselves, even as they are powerless to resist or ignore. Heady stuff!
Of course tickling is a fetish in its own right for some people, with commercial tickling porn and everything. But I sometimes have trouble imagining that the pro bondage pornographers (who usually seem to produce oh-so-serious tableaux featuring anguished faces, strained positions, and whistling whips) don’t tickle their models now and again, if only to produce a smile when they need one.
And, indeed, they do tickle, if this tickle-bondage photo from Hogtied.com is any indication:
That’s the lovely Veronica Jett getting tickled in her ropes, and you can see more of her here.
I’ve been known to have fun spotting erotically-charged road signs, and it isn’t surprising to discover I’m not alone. (If you read the comments there you’ll see that the Photoshopped picture has already been identified as a fake, so let’s not bring that subject up here, k thanx.) As the poster at Get Along Gang says, some businesses choose such a name because they know it will get them attention.
Whatever. It would sure be nice to go into a Cocks store and let my eyes linger over their selection…..maybe even choose a thick one to take home since I don’t have a boyfriend. What I’d like best is for this poster (from AllPosters.com) to be predicting my future:
Thanks to my sister (the hippie-type cool one, not the one that’s making me get into a bridesmaids dress next month) for the sign link.
OK, all you enema fetishists, here’s a rare picture for you. Little hints like the flying shoe suggest that this is some sort of colonic intervention — an anal mugging, if you will:
Of course the ladies in charge of the business seem to be in cheerful high spirits.
Random photo from the very large image collection, featuring bondage and foot licking:
I actually know some folks who attend “foot washing” events, but they claim it’s a religious thing (emulating Jesus) and not a fetish thing. I suppose skepticism on my part would seem churlish. In any case, I don’t think they do it the way the girl in the photo does it.
In the tired stereotype of the semi-satisfying suburban sex life, blowjobs often feature as a “special” activity if at all — birthday sex, or as a sexual “reward” for being a well-trained man, as in this old joke. As is obvious to any sex blog reader, that old stereotype is getting less and less apt these days, but it still rings true for a vast swathe of American manhood.
He likes to be serviced sexually while He’s busy doing something else. I suppose that could be labelled a fetish of sorts. He likes to have me working hard to suck His cock while He’s distracting Himself with… well, with anything. A book, the tv, the computer. It’s a challenge for my dick-sucking abilities to keep Him hard when He’s otherwise occupied. When He starts going soft I know I’m beginning to lack in effort. That’s about when He’ll start chastising me too. If it happens too often, if I’m really lacking in effort, He will get mad.
I know alot of people, women, would find that to be disrespectful or they’d flat out refuse to do it. I’ve read it, I’ve heard it. They want or need that attention, they’d see His focusing on something else as an insult of some sort. And I’ve experienced that too. I feel that at times and I get irritated and frustrated and have let it become personal. I’ve gone down the road of “He doesn’t like me, He doesn’t want me, I could be any whore down here, I’m not attractive to Him, blah blah blah.” Been there. But it’s not about that. Not really.
He is getting off on the humiliation that it causes me, of course. And it *is* humiliating. Mostly though, He’s getting off on the power and control. It’s a huge power trip for Him. He gets off on the effort I put into it. I’m *working* to please Him while He’s working to ignore it. While He lies/sits there, cool as a cucumber and seemingly uninterested, I’m sweating, I’m grunting, I’m generally in some degree of discomfort or pain and all I am getting out of it is a ‘good girl’ at the end. And I’ll only hear that if I’ve put enough effort into it to have impressed Him.
It’s a victory for me if I can make it good enough and catch His interest enough, that He stops everything else that He’s doing and focuses on me. Focuses on me in a good way that is, not because I’ve messed things up somehow. I was victorious on this night though.
The computer is just one of the things that He will be busy doing when He snaps and points at His crotch. The ol’ snap-n-point. Snap and point and I am on my knees searching for His cock. What a spoiled man He is.
Oh, and a reminder to the recent influx of new readers: it’s my habitual practice to deliberately feature a photo from time to time that is likely to appeal only to folks with rare or unusual fetishes. Hell, sometimes (like today) I put up a photo simply because I imagine, without any evidence, that there must be a fetishist somewhere who will think it’s hot. If you think such a photo is “gross” or “sick” — as some of you apparently do, judging by the comments I’ve been catching in moderation lately — please keep those opinions to yourself, or express them elsewhere. ErosBlog (meaning me) does not welcome sex-negative or judgmental commentary. You don’t like something you see here? Fine, whatever rubs your crank. But we (meaning me, again) are not interested in hearing about your revulsion.
We don’t strictly enforce Thumper’s rule; you don’t have to say something nice, or keep your mouth shut. But if you don’t have anything nice to say, you must at least find a nice way to say whatcha got.
ErosBlog is not the only place where the puppy girl fetish has been mentioned; although I haven’t seen too many web resources devoted to canine roleplaying, there’s enough collars and leashes sold to people with no dogs to suggest it’s a fairly popular game. Does your human puppy (I suppose puppyboys are just as likely) need a waggable rubber buttplug dog tail?
The sales copy seems aimed at eager-to-please doggies:
Show your Master you are pleased by wagging your Wiggly Rubber Dog Tail. A perfect tail for puppy play, this anal plug is made out firm yet wiggly black rubber, with a 4″ insertable oval shaped plug and about 8″ of tail to wag. Quality rubber craftsmen designed this plug to stay put and be worn for hours. This well made dog tail compliments any human dog behind. Wear it and be sure to get lots of treats.
Woof!
2021 update: These toys are long unavailable, but there’s a similar tail in this puppy play set.
Yes, yes, of course it’s fun to get a good grip on a silky handfull of head hair (or a well-tied braid, yum) and use it like a leash. Sadly, that’s not what this post is about.
No, instead we have yet another entry in the large category called “Bizarre Things The Japanese Will Draw Into Anime”. Yes, it’s cartoon armpit hair pulling time:
Pretty impressive considering that anime babes usually don’t have any body hair at all.
From time to time in porn towards the gonzo end of the spectrum you’ll see someone reach forward from behind the performer and hook his fingers into the corners of her mouth, pulling it into a grimace. This is called “fish-hooking” and its intended erotic significance is opaque to me.
Fingers are one thing. Feet are another. Here now from Wired Pussy comes a photograph that takes fish-hooking to a whole new toe-fetish level:
As my father used to say, I don’t know too much and I don’t understand all I know.
When I posted about the life sized statue of Britney Spears kneeling nude on a bearskin rug and giving birth (hey, aren’t those furs hard to clean?) there was some complaint about the lack of a rear view. With all due respect for pregnancy fetishists, I myself (on grounds of aesthetics) thought it was just as well that no rear view was available.
Well, it never pays to underestimate the power of the internet. Gawker has the unflattering angle you were all looking for. Thanks (I think) to Chris for emailing the link.
2013 update: A commenter points out that Gawker is no longer serving the image in question. Since we’re now buried deep in the archives where nobody will see this who is not looking for it (I hope) I’ll reproduce the photo (thank you, Internet Archive and the Wayback Machine!) that Gawker can’t be bothered to serve any more:
This week’s Pillowbook has a few words about a man with a hair fetish. Including a variant hair sex practice that may surprise even you, the sex blog readers who have seen it all:
let me briefly share with you an observation on the kinkiest hair sex i’ve had. so far.
it’s not really about pubic hair, but i still think it’s worth mentioning.
i had this guy once (well, quite a few times, actually), who was so besotted with my hair (head hair) that he wanted me to get on all fours over him and use it to stroke him to full erection, every single time we fucked. all over his body i’d stroke him, like he was a billiard table and i was sweeping him prior to a game or something. i would have to sweep him like that for however long it took for his cock to be standing fully to attention. which was usually about ten seconds, but could go on for a lot longer, depending on whether or not he wanted me to bypass penetration altogether and hair-sweep him to orgasm, as he sometimes did. then he’d shoot his load into my hair, and i’d have to go to sleep with a wet spot next to my cheek…
but that’s not the kinky part. that’s just normal.
you and your partner probly did that very thing last night.
no, the kinky part was when he wanted me to peel back his foreskin, take a single strand of living, still-attached hair, wrap it around his glans in a spiral from the base, roll the foreskin back over it, and then – ever so gently so that the hair didn’t break – pull away from him, dragging the hair out from beneath his foreskin like a rock climber’s line playing out of his ropebag.
the thing was, my hair is so fine that sometimes it *would* break, and then things would turn ugly.
let’s not go there.
but, if it didn’t break, he would end up so aroused that, when i tried to then mount him for penetration, he’d usually have come in my hand while i was still trying to place him against my slit.
we did that so often that my head hair was well and truly fetishised. i’d be sitting in a sidewalk cafe with him and the wind would riffle my fringe onto my face, and, when i went to brush it away with my hand, i could tell that he was boning up beneath his latte.
We all know that large books have been published about the effects of marriage on various sexual sensibilities. Here’s a tiny new chapter from The Smitten:
This is, hands down, the hottest picture I have ever taken of my husband and it’s not because I have a thing for Hummer-sized feet:
Shown here is among the greatest things that have happened since we walked off the aisle and into the sunset together. You see, this man right here is scrubbing the bathtub. Our bathtub. Hard. And more importantly, better than I can.
If you’ve ever imagined that it might be fun and handy to have a scullery maid, to wipe all your dishes and, er, polish your candlesticks, here’s a photographic hint of what it might be like:
If you’ve ever seen the print version of Hustler’s Taboo magazine (edited by the modestly legendary bondage king Earnest Greene, spouse of hugely legendary porn star Nina Hartley), you’ll know that it’s a cut above the usual newstand fetish fare. Sure, it’s got your basic bleached blondes in crotchless red latex catsuits piddling into clear glass salad bowls, and sure, it combines handcuffs, riding crops, and blowjobs in ways that are hardly novel (although perhaps a bit prettier and a bit edgier than is common these days). But it’s also got some of the slickest fetish photography around, from famous photographers like Suze Randall, and some of its kinkiness borders on genuine high-concept:
Any fool can order a pony girl outfit and deliver photographs of some cute filly high-stepping across the carpets of an LA hotel suite, but where else will you see a porno-blonde in latex boots and corset hauling a manure wagon around some dirty farm in the dark? It’s gotta be art, I tell you!
I went down to see the oldsters for Thanksgiving again this year, but thankfully I didn’t have a repeat of last year’s fun, which started great but ended rotten. I did see a series of billboards that were funny. First I thought they all had the same misspelling…..but then I decided that was too negative. It’s loads more fun to think they’re for real. The signs all had some variation on this message:
Dick’s Body Shop
24 hour Toe Service
What service do your toes want from Dick? :-)
(What have I been doing with myself? New job, new apartment, lots of melodrama in getting both. Too much traveling. Not enough sexy stuff!)
Wow. I just got the new video iPod. Of course I didn’t get it just for viewing porn, but I’ve got a sex blog thing going on here, so I had to try that out.
Unfortunately, the iTunes store doesn’t sell any worthy porn. No worries; like lots of folks, I’ve got a ton of accumulated little porn clips on my hard drive that I’ve downloaded over the years. Lots of it is 320×240 (the dreaded “postage stamp” size) and doesn’t look like much on a computer screen viewed from twenty-four inches away, but on the stunningly vivid iPod screen held a comfortable distance in front of your face, it ought to look real good. So I’ll just bung my video clips into my iTunes library and get busy viewing, right?
Alas, no. There’s a slight flaw in that plan — video formats. The iPod accepts only two formats; video on the PC comes in many different flavors, virtually none of which match what the iPod wants. You want a good explanation for that, talk to a video geek; I don’t pretend to understand it. There are ways to convert, but they don’t sound easy. I Googled the problem and the “best” solution seemed to be to buy expensive conversion software and then expect to wait a long time as each bit of video gets converted properly. Sorry, but I don’t want it that bad.
So how am I gonna get porn for my iPod?
Fortunately, inspiration struck. You’ll have noticed I’m always posting pictures here that I downloaded from the alt.binaries erotica newsgroups on Usenet; the service I use for that is GUBA, a cheap and friendly sort of search appliance for the Usenet visual content that’s otherwise very difficult to find and download. (If you know how to download dirty movies from Usenet without GUBA, you probably already know how to convert all your files into iPod-friendly formats too, while baking a savory peach pie with your other hand.) Maybe GUBA (I thought hopefully) would have some iPod-friendly dirty movies?
Ding ding ding ding ding! Jackpot. It turns out that GUBA is riding the crest of the iPod porn wave; they have recently added a filter that converts almost all of the video on Usenet into iPod-friendly format, so if it’s been posted to Usenet in the last couple of weeks, you can download it iPod-ready. That’s a LOT of porn, folks; the bigger groups (like alt.binaries.multimedia.erotica) can have 2,500 or more video clips (or even whole movies) at any one time. And there are a metric buttload of different porn groups — one for every imaginable fetish.
When it comes to finding and downloading, nothing could be easier. Just pick your flavor (say, nude celebrities from alt.binaries.multimedia.nude.celebrities) and browse the videos — they make it easy with full-screen “contact sheet” style previews, or you can watch online with a nifty streaming Flash application. Here’s a clip of Halle Berry getting naked and nasty (in a good way) in Monster’s Ball (members-only link, will expire in a couple of weeks):
All you have to do is hit the “iPod Download” button. Once the file’s on your hard drive, import it into iTunes and it will be added to your iPod the next time you synch up. Easy as pie!
Better still, every newsgroup on GUBA has a nifty “subscribe to Feed in iTunes” button at the top of the page: When I clicked that, I downloaded a .pcast file that loads into iTunes and sets it up to download new movies from the selected group as fast as they appear (bandwidth permitting, and you can eat a lot of it this way). An endless gusher of porn, shooting from the hose faster than you could ever hope to consume it. (I could dirty up that metaphor if you liked.)
None of which would matter much, except for the fact that (just like everyone says) watching video on the iPod is an unexpectedly pleasurable experience. The screen is bright and vivid, the details are sharp, and when the iPod’s in your hand, it naturally gravitates to your most comfortable viewing distance. In many cases, it’s actually quite a lot better than watching the same movies on your computer screen. Plus, you can take the iPod somewhere more comfortable (or more private) than your computer desk, if you are so inclined….
I bought my video iPod to have an iPod, thinking the video would be a mostly-worthless gimmick. Boy, was I wrong. The Nymph (who loves music videos) took one look over my shoulder and began pleading with me to let her play with it — the video is that pretty. At this rate, I may have to buy her a second one!
Update from the future: Apple invented smartphones, killing video iPods deader than the Dodo bird. Meanwhile GUBA pulled a #pornocalypse and got rid of all its porn, trying to compete with YouTube; it was dead and gone in eighteen months. Now this post is nothing but a quaint historical artifact. But The Nymph enjoyed that video iPod for many years, in truth.
I’ve linked to the Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository since the very first day ErosBlog went online. The sheer volume of free sex stories available there is mindboggling, and the diversity of subject matter is unlike any commercial text porn ever published. Last week, I noticed that the Kirsten Archives (one of the many collections hosted in the repository) featured ErosBlog as its “Momentary Link”. The traffic and recognition are appreciated, and so I’m returning the favor.
Here’s an excerpt from one of the Kirsten Archives stories, a little food fetish number called “Laura’s Banana“:
“Take your pants off,” Laura breathed. “Let me see your hard cock.”
With the two bananas sticking out of her snatch, Laura handed me a third, unpeeled this time.
“Stick it in me between the others.”
With one hand on my rock hard cock, I stuck the banana in with my other. Inch by inch, Laura’s cunt accepted it.
Laura was now calling for me to fuck her with it.
“Push it in farther; then pull it out, oh yes, that’s it, only harder.”
There’s something fascinating about watching an articulate fetishist of ordinary objects describe his (or her .. but it’s usually “his”) fetish. When the fetish is common enough to be deliberately recognized, acknowledged, and sexualized in mainstream media or porn (as with leather, rubber, shoes, pantyhose, and the like) the effect is lessened by our own recognition of the fetish; we can see a pretty lady rubbing a foot against her nylons and go “Mmm, a two-fer” even if we aren’t foot or nylons fetishists our own selves. But when the fetish is more uncommon (balloons, casts), there’s less sexual “noise” when the non-fetishist witnesses the fetishist in action. For me, at least, it offers insight into what fetish is and how it works.
But wait, I hear you saying. Did I say “casts”?
Indeed I did. Confessions of a Cast Fetishist [link broken and removed] is just what it sounds like; or, as the author of the blog puts it, “a description and continuing exploration of my erotic and aesthetic obsessions with leg casts, female feet — especially toes — and footwear.” No, really:
[The film] does happen to feature one rather important detail: a significant female character with a leg in a plaster cast. This might not necessarily be of great import to the vast majority of the movie-consuming public but, to the connoisseur fetishist, leg casts are not altogether common in cinema history, and so any one that may occur is something to be savoured. And, should the person sporting the leg cast happen to be quite as attractive as Famke Janssen, as is this particular instance, well, now we’re talking. Anyway, as a result, I’ve recently invested in a copy of the DVD of the film, to enjoy, again and again, the relevant scenes at my leisure, as it were.
…
I love to see a plaster cast being customized like that, in such a typical way — it’s what people do when they see a cast, and why not, who could blame them? I know that were I actually to be in that scene, I’d be snatching her crayons and pens from the kid and elbowing her out of the way in order to have my turn, and how I’d hog that plaster cast to my heart’s content, decorating it in my own special way, adding my very own personal dedications and hymns to its wonder and beauty. I should add that Famke spends a sizable part of the film wearing a skimpy, tight little vest top that is also hardly unbecoming to her charms. Here’s another little peek. How lovely it would be to keep her “entertained” under the circumstances.
Sorry, folks. I know that enemas are not universally considered sexy. But they are a commonly fetishized activity. And if you don’t like the enema portion of these transcripts of Marilyn Monroe’s conversations with her therapist, there’s always her comments on orgasms or spanking to enjoy.
Marilyn on enemas:
“I don’t understand this big taboo about enemas. Most of the actresses I know use them, even some who won’t admit it. Mae West told me she is given an enema every day and she has at least one orgasm a day. Mae says her enemas and orgasms will keep her young until she is 100.
Peter Crawford says the Queen and noblemen of the court of Louis XIV were give frequent enemas by special servants called apothecaries. The purpose was to give them peaches and cream complexions. Something about intestinal toxins getting into your blood. So there you are. Those ladies were doing the intelligent thing.
One of the neat things about downloading dirty pictures from Usenet is the way you can stumble across images that are deliciously bizarre. Like this one from alt. binaries. pictures. erotica. vintage:
As the kids these days like to say: WTF? Is there actually a vinyl-reindeer-antler-sucking fetish out there, or was this model merely bored that day?
I have a soft spot in my heart for Barbarella. I know it’s cheesy by today’s standards, and Jane Fonda’s politics don’t endear her to alot of people, but that movie is just naughty-sexy-fun to me. And her costumes? Still beautiful.
When I saw this painting it reminded me of Barbarella, but brought into the 21st century:
So lovely! The painting is called “Metal Nouveau”, and it’s by Marcus Gray (the link will take you to the full-size image). His web site has several other paintings like this, plus lots in other styles, some sort of cartoonish. Lots of sexy, hot art!
If you like playing “In The Dungeons Of The Inquisition” with your partner of choice, you’ll be impressed by this photograph from Water Bondage:
What caught my attention, after a moment’s thought, was the real-world dynamic of arranging to take this picture. Just exactly how trusted does a fetish photographer have to be, before his models will agree to an underwater bondage photo shoot? I don’t care how kinky you are or what the photo shoot pays: when the water closes over your head you’re going to want to have a lot of faith that the boys wearing the torturer’s cowls are paying close attention to your well-being.
Proof, if you need it, that there are still professions in the world where character and reputation matter.
Not just any fashion shows, natch. How about some fetish fashion? Such as this fetching black and red ensemble. Check out the wicked boots!
If that’s a bit too much for your taste, here’s another sexy-hot picture:
Both from photographer Eric Martin’s web site, num-eric. Lots more there too, and for those interested in reading about him in English, I found an Eros Guide interview with him.
Do you like toe porn? If so, you’ll love Celebrity Feet — the blog in which “the bored pothead” is carefully accumulating the best pictures he can find of bare-footed celebrities. These are the piggies of Julia Roberts:
Took off Thursday night for a road trip, to see a good friend that I haven’t seen since high school. She’s now a mom to three girls (yikes!). Didn’t expect much to happen that was worth mentioning here, but I was–happily!–wrong.
First, the girls are big PowerPuff Girls fans, so episodes were a near-constant backdrop to our conversation. This line caught my attention: “You’ve got to eat it, to beat it.” Turns out they weren’t talking about what I immediately thought of (despite the verbs being backwards), but some evil broccoli-space-aliens. It was actually a pretty clever episode.
My friend and I had lots of fun being giggly and catty. One conversation kept us laughing throughout the evening … I was telling her about my first live-in lover, and how he hated how I dressed in the winter. No, I don’t go in for those cutesy holiday-oriented items … I like wool. I like the feel of it against my skin … but he hated it, said it was too itchy to wear without a lining or layer underneath, and looked horrified, I reported to my friend, “… when I got dressed for work wearing a wool sweater and wool slacks and –gasp!– nothing on underneath!”
Amid giggles, she accused me of having a wool fetish, which set me to wondering (amidst various jokes concerning woollen condoms and the like), is such a thing documented? Fetish Network doesn’t appear to have anything … Trusty Google doesn’t show much either … a funny story that isn’t really on target … Sweaterbabes, which is somewhat closer … could it really be that I have, unknowingly, created a new fetish category? :blush: I doubt it, but it’s an amusing thought nonetheless.
And, since it’s Saturday, a relevant sex ‘toon: The PowerPuff Girls get naughty with Kenny from South Park:
Ahhh, the joys of a Friday off–sleeping late, browsing all the juicy sites with abandon, plenty of coffee…then I spotted this loading in a window and my heart jumped into my throat:
What a gorgeous suit! It comes in other colors too, but… ooooh …what could be better than that red?
I don’t remember how I got there, but this and other luscious fetishwear is available at the brand-spankin’-new Imp of Satan store. They’re located in Seattle, and say they ship worldwide. Did I hear someone say, “Road trip!”? :D
In all the discussion Aphrodite stirred up about sex during menstruation, I was suprised that nobody pointed out the fetish angle. Yes, boys and girls, there are men (and perhaps women too, although it seems much rarer in general to find anecdotes about women with strongly-held unusual fetishes) who fetishize menstrual blood. Just ask Mistress Matisse.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my feelings on the subject are ambivalent. The women I’ve been with have been quick to bat my hand etc. away at that time of the month, and I’ve never really been the “overwhelm her feeble protests” type (although that’s a fun game to play). However, I’ve had some good sex in the dark that turned out to be bloody. No big deal. And I’m on record for the proposition that a gentlemen shouldn’t freak out about sex messes. Which, gentlemen, means “No big deal” is your story and you had bloody well better (pardon the expression) stick to it. Make her feel good about whatever happens, no matter what your inner girlyman is shrieking.
Ok, now listen up, all you furries with a submissive chicken fetish: Burger King wants you to have it your way. Not news? No, really, it is.
Here’s the deal. There’s a flash website where a man (well, perhaps a man) in a rooster suit will do pretty much whatever you tell him. The Boing Boing crowd has a couple of posts that will help you get the most out of your slave chicken. Apparently, you can get him to do a startling variety of things.
A California man has pleaded guilty to residential burglary after he set up a meeting with a woman on a rape fantasy Internet chat page, but instead broke into a different woman’s apartment.
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After he entered the wrong apartment, he hit and struggled with the 25-year-old woman inside, who told law enforcement officials she thought she was going to be killed.
The victim stopped the attack by yelling and attacking Howard’s testicles. Howard then asked for the name the victim used in the chat room and she responded by saying she had never visited a chat room and did not have a personal computer.
I suppose it’s a little surprising it took all this time for the fire and brimstone brigade to come around here. In case you missed it, my comments were graced with this lovely sentiment, unburdened by any actual discussion of or engagement with the topic of my post:
“Whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.”
Which is from Revelations 20:15, although the commenter with the barbecue fetish was apparently too busy visualizing roasted human flesh to bother saying so. Having assumed, for blogging purposes, the identity of the Roman god of intoxication and orgies, I naturally find this sort of badly-directed preaching to be at least as funny as Io in her heifer suit.
Although this particular sex blog is not the place for discussions of Christian religion, me being neither Christian nor convertible, there’s no particular reason why sex blogs (even kinky ones) can’t handle the subject with grace, intelligence, and wit when it comes up. Alas, that’s apparently too much to expect from the littering pamphleteers with the sulphurous savor of burning flesh in their nostrils.
“Yesterday, a man paid me to punch him repeatedly in the stomach for ten straight minutes. He explained that an incident during his childhood had spawned the fetish, and told me to punch him as hard as I could. So I did. I’ve never slugged anyone before, and I must admit it felt good.”
Speaking of vibration, the fine folks at Eros Boutique sent along a box the other day with a couple of vibrators. (Yes, Virginia, Bacchus is always happy to accept free sex toys in exchange for a review.) Although they have a lot of excellent goodies for sale, The Nymph and I were disappointed in these two items.
First: Spice Incognito Nail Polish Vibe. Powered by included watch batteries, this vibe looks like a bottle of nail polish and is very discrete. So discrete, in fact, that at first I couldn’t figure out how to turn it on. I finally figured out that I had turned it on, but the vibration was so faint I had to stand completely still and concentrate in order to detect it humming in my hand. Nifty if that’s what you like, but as a guy I’m in the “more power” camp and the Nymph doesn’t appear to disagree. When they sell a vibrator with a built-in cold-fusion reactor so the neighborhood lights don’t dim when it starts up, I’ll probably want one.
Second: I Kit – The Pocket Rocket Complete Kit. No complaints about the base vibrating unit on this model; it buzzes quite vigorously and made The Nymph happy. However, the attachments don’t stay attached very well; even the slightest sideways pressure and they pop off. Since the attachments are small, this raises the spectre of one disappearing into an orifice – which is never sexy unless you have a medical fetish. Also, the attachments are apparently supposed to be flavored (the box advertises availability in “three blissful flavors” including strawberry, blueberry, and grape) but in fact they have a very strong odor and flavor of PVC plasticisers — you know, that vinyl air-mattress smell. You can tell (sort of) that there’s a hint of fruit smell blended into the mix, but it’s overwhelmed by the vinyl smell. Great for folks with a vinyl fetish!
It will come as no surprise to readers of this sex blog (given some of the pictures and links that get posted here) that there are as many startling fetishes in the world as (it sometimes seems) there are people. Nor is ErosBlog the place to come to find condemnation of any of them (fetishes or people), although as to some (fetishes) this blog remains silent for the sake of my own undisturbed digestion. The next story, from Rebel With A Clue of the Anarchobabes, caught my eye because it involves a fetish I’d never heard of, and a stunningly dickish approach to satisfying it:
When I was just out of high school, I hitched a ride with this older guy in a nice car and a suit. Okay, so tell me I’m crazy, but he seemed okay. And he was, I guess. He was a lawyer, very respectable. We ended up going out a couple of times and old mom really liked him. I got the finally you’re going out with the RIGHT kind of guy rant. I could just see her planning my wedding to a fuckin lawyer. And he seemed okay, except for being that sort of guy who tells you you shouldn’t order steak well done and who tries to make you feel bad if you don’t listen to La Boheme instead of Rage Against the Machine.
So the first couple of times we go out, he’s everything mom thinks he is. But then one night we go to his house and we start getting hot. And it’s okay. I admit it, it’s more than okay, I’m getting ready to jump out of my skin, not only my clothes. And he starts peeling me. Then he gets to my bra. And he takes it off. And he STOPS AND TURNS THE LIGHT UP AND READS THE FUCKIN LABLE!
I have these breasts, you know. Pretty good ones. But he read that lable and got this big dum grin and says, “That’s exactly the size I thought you were!” And then sort of rubs the bra together in his palms and smiles in this weird way. Then he tells me to get dressed and sends me home! That’s all he wanted, to find out my bra size. I never saw the guy again and you bet that was OK with me.
You know, now that I think about it, I have heard of that fetish before. Who among us hasn’t known someone with a fetish for being right, at all costs?
It’s not at all unheard of for me to post BDSM-ish stuff on ErosBlog. However, I’m not sure I’ve ever posted any femdom (women dominating men) pictures. Why not? Well, what little fem/dom porn I’ve ever seen has had always had an extreme case of the common porn problem, namely, that the people shown in it too often aren’t smiling or appearing to have any fun. I’m a huge believer that porn in any genre is ten times as hot if the performers look like they are enjoying themselves.
Thus this rather cute drawing caught my eye, because it shows three lovely young blonde ladies having fun with a hapless but perhaps-not-unhappy young man. Two of the three ladies have pleased-looking smiles on their faces, and the lady with the whip looks more intense than mean:
There’s a slightly larger version over at the “free” (lots of affiliate links, but no pop-ups that I saw) porn site where this turned up.
Update: Reader Melissa let me know that the artist is Sardax (at sardax.com ).
Much as I hate to link to pure porn sites, every now and then I find one that strikes my jaded eyes as being new and different. Here’s a bondage site with a twist: At Water Bondage, the moistly restrained models are ducked, dunked, squirted, splashed, hosed down, and generally subjected to large volumes of water in addition to their strict bondage. Lots of steel cages, shackles, and what look disturbingly like electrical play toys can be seen in the promo thumbnails:
This sure looks like your one-stop for all you firehose interrogation fetishists, dunking fans, and aficionados of really damp dungeons. And the marvel of it is, outside of a few bathtub bondage pics, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it!
Here’s a huge page of links to tickling stories. [Er, it was here; now it’s gone.] Stories with scenes like this, from Sonja’s Tickle Torture:
Jake chuckled and began to dig in just beneath her toes. Sonja’s eyes opened wide and she screamed with laughter as her poor toes wiggled frantically trying to escape his tickling touch. She just couldn’t stand much more.
” Mercy!!!” She shouted!! “Please ahahahahah have mercy on meeeee!!” Sonja screamed.
A small hole had formed in the nylon fabric just below the struggling ticklish toes of her right foot, and taking advantage of that fact Jake made the hole a little bigger and snaked a finger into it and begun to scratch the sole of her foot.
Sonja went nuts, she squealed and squirmed and bit her lower lip and clasped and unclasped her tightly bound hands, she screwed her eyes shut and laughed and laughed. It was sheer torture for her.
I’m always amused by big collections of highly specialized fetish fiction. The writing is often horrid, but the enthusiasm is always enjoyable.
I’ve “borrowed” the following graphic from the front page of the excellent if somewhat frightening medical fetish toy sellers at MedicalToys.Com. (The theory is that they’ll overlook my liberality in this respect because of the free promotion it gives them; presumably if that theory is wrong they’ll menace me with urethral catheters or lawyers or something and I’ll have to replace the graphic with a picture of Mickey Rat giving someone the finger.)
But I digress. The picture:
If you don’t recognize the object “Nurse Laurel” is brandishing, these two archiveentries might help you out. If you don’t know why it’s sexy, don’t worry; like most fetishes, the appeal is not obvious…except to those to whom it is obvious. I confess this one has me scratching my head, but presumably it’s all in good fun.
Here’s a hilarious pinup art essay by James Lileks, in which is lampooned an extensive series of paintings featuring girls whose panties have mysteriously fallen off in public. Celery is often present. It’s all very weird and a little disturbing, although some of the pictures are sort of cute if you are into public humiliation of pretty but hapless women with inexplicably slippery thighs:
It’s hard to say whether Lileks doesn’t get that this was a fetish of the artist, doesn’t approve of what is basically a harmless fetish expressed in art, or is just being so harsh for the (considerable) comic effect that results. A good read in any case.
I have a strange fetish: I would love to have sex with a woman who is incredibly bored with me being there. If she were doing something else like reading a book or maybe doing her nails or possibly watching TV while I was going at it, I would find that incredibly hot.
Dan gives a long, thoughtful, and nuanced response about erotic humiliation scenarios and how to ask your honey to indulge you with them. But he missed the obvious question:
“If you like this sort of treatment, why not just get married?”
Quite a long time back Erosblog linked to Sticky Kitty’s explanation of why she liked being spanked. Now SpankBoss (who is blogging up a storm over at the new and prolific Spanking Blog) explains the spanker perspective, or his anyway:
Why spanking? It’s hard to be successfully introspective about the things that make us hot. But if you’ll accept an armchair-psychology self-analysis, I think it’s a power-and-revenge thing. But that sounds…well, not worse, but perhaps more important, than it should? It’s no big deal. Rather, like most mild fetishes, it’s more of a vestigial thing, a left-over artifact of a bad adolescent decade. Like most guys who aren’t jocks or hunks, I was pretty frustrated as a young man, and got told “no” a lot, or (worse) ignored. Spanking a woman (in fantasy, against her will; in reality, with her consent) amounts to a spot of harmless payback. It’s sexually hot because when a woman is being spanked, she is, literally and symbolically speaking, in no position to say “no.” If she could (in fantasy), or would (in reality), it would have happened already. I guess you could say spanking liberates my inner mustache-twirling dastardly villain. All in good dirty fun of course.
The article is entitled “Fourteen Sexual Fantasies I just Don’t Understand” but when you read it, it’s a condemnation of anyone who does understand the fetishes in question.
Into watersports? You “nasty skank.” Older women? “Not sexy.” Like girls with body hair? “Bad news for you: you’re probably gay.” Foot Fetish? “Not even remotely affiliated with the sexual process.” Like shemales? “Just sick.” Wierd insertions? “Ain’t sexy.” Bestiality? “Not erotic.” “Excessive Bondage”? “Just not nice.” Female domination? Forget it — “It’s the role of the guy to be the dominator.” Cartoons? “Jerking off to a cartoon should be a last resort.” Pregnant women? You “sick fuck.”
Anyone reading the article is probably going to agree with some of these – certainly there are several of these fetishes that would send Bacchus screaming for the next county. But it’s unclear what is to be gained by condemning fetishes you don’t personally find sexy.
What a maroon. And on the evidence, a somewhat sexist and homophobic maroon to boot.
Got a belly button fetish? You’ll like The Belly Button Page then. Heck, fetish or no fetish, you might like it anyway — some of them belly buttons is cute.
Alert readers will note that ErosBlog does not link to a lot of actual porn sites. Mostly this is a reader protection measure. Commercial online porn tends to be hideously abusive to its potential customers, punishing them for their curious visit with endless loops of browser-killing pop-ups, browser modification scripts, spyware installers, dialer programs, and other malicious treats.
However, another reason porn sites aren’t discussed more on ErosBlog is that commercial porn tends to be boring. There’s a fetishistic focus on distorted plastic boobs, fake blond hair, and shaved oiled surfaces that frankly don’t look like anything ordinary folks generally manage to have sex with.
Via a link found at Totalitarianism Today, we learn the hopeful news that folks trying to break with the oiled shaved plastic blonde tradition are making money. Good on them; perhaps it will catch on.
Bukkake is one of those hard-core porn concepts that you either know about or you don’t. The Reverse Cowgirl mentions it all the time, but she’s not much help to the clueless. When the word comes up in conversation (yah, as if that happens every day) the folks who aren’t familiar with it look puzzled, and the folks who know what it means refuse to elaborate. Because how could one define this word in even semi-polite conversation?
Bukkake is something that I have only a small amount of knowledge on, so some of the more learned members of our industry might want to chime in with some history. But as I understand it, the practice originated in Japan before rising to some popularity in the States. A Bukkake video usually features one of two things: either a girl getting spunked on by numerous (usually) anonymous cocks, or numerous (usually) anonymous cocks spunk into some kind of receptacle, and the girl guzzles it. This is what taking the Atkins Diet too far does to you.
Now if only someone could explain why this is sexy. Yah yah yah, different strokes for different folks, one person’s fetish is another person’s gross out, your kink is not my kink but that doesn’t mean your kink is not OK, et cetera, literally (in this case) ad nauseum. Bacchus still doesn’t get it.
That said, ErosBlog is going out on the cutting (shooting?) edge. If you really really want to know what bukkake is, here is a picture. Publishing a bukkake picture may be a blogging first. If it grosses you out, tough shit — you knew where you were going when you clicked the link.
If anyone feels this is a new low for ErosBlog, you may perhaps be right. Perhaps mixing a Long Island Iced Tea in the one-liter beer mug was not such a good idea. Alas:
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
The Group Captain provided this map as evidence that the Middle East is in deep shit:
Ayup. And it’s DARK in there, too. Plus the ventilation, while sometimes vigorous, leaves a bit to be desired.
However, Bacchus is a twisted fellow, and therefore wonders whether this map might not also explain the existence (or, worse yet, the immediate adjacency) of the following two entries from the ErosBlog referral logs:
islamic questions about oral sex
israeli gas mask fetish
Those rough boys at The Exile explain just one of the many inventive ways sex is marketed in Russia:
First, I’ll explain how it was that I ended up with the hottest teenage provincial model at the playground of a mega-rich friend of Moe’s. There’s a simple explanation. We still owed the modeling pimp — Alla’s boss, Slava, the guy who brought her out from Belgorod along with about 25 other models from various depressed provincial towns — a couple thousand more dollars. That was part of the deal. If any of the revelers succeeded in “seducing” the models, Alla’s boss got a 100% bonus. Which meant, of course, that the models would be given a handy beating and blackballing back to their shitty provincial towns if they didn’t allow one of Snideman’s invitees to “seduce” them. Slava wanted his bonus. He kept all the money for himself. He barely paid the models, shipping them in and out of Moscow on third class platzkart, feeding them little more than soup.
Ah, Rossiya. Bacchus has visited…
The same article later brings up an eternal mystery:
Why, why, why do women under the age of 30 cut their hair short? Why? Has any woman, ever, in the history of mankind, ever looked better with short hair? Huh? Has any man ever said to a young woman with beautiful long hair, “You know honey, I really wish you’d look like my mother after she underwent intensive chemotherapy for ovarian cancer I have a hospice fetish that I can’t quench. So why don’t you go and cut all your hair off. Please, oh pretty please?! I really want to fuck a cancer patient!”
Classic bondage porn from the days of the line printer! Hogtied slave girl rendered entirely in parentheses, asterisks, and the odd backslash! Real geek nostalgia!
UPDATE: You thought that was fun? OK, here’s a fetish girl wearing a gas mask and leather bondage harness. ASCII porn? Who knew?
When I clicked that, I downloaded a .pcast file that loads into iTunes and sets it up to download new movies from the selected group as fast as they appear (bandwidth permitting, and you can eat a lot of it this way). An endless gusher of porn, shooting from the hose faster than you could ever hope to consume it. (I could dirty up that metaphor if you liked.)
